


The 14 Labors of Jonathan Sims

by LotusFlair



Series: 14 Labors [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Atonement - Freeform, Based on the Labors of Hercules, Canon Asexual Character, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Apocalypse, Post-MAG 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-01-26 11:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 69,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: Atonement comes in many forms. In order for Jon to free himself, he needs to perform 14 tasks. One for each Entity. Only then will he be able to rest. Only then will he be at peace.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: 14 Labors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689529
Comments: 343
Kudos: 579
Collections: Best Complete Series





	1. Prologue - The Archivist Reclaimed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I've been horrible at letting people know where I'm usually lurking on the internet.
> 
> I'm @darling_sammy on Twitter 
> 
> You can also visit my website, POP Archives at www.pop-archives.com, where I look at how archives and archivists (my real world profession) are depicted in pop culture. There's even a couple of Magnus Archives articles!

It was amazing what human beings could tolerate. Monsters around every corner, fear felt tenfold, and an all-seeing Eye watching all of it with passive fascination. But, in this little village in Scotland, Martin watched some carry on as if this was always the state of things. Sure, there was panic and worry and fear, but people still needed to eat, money was still exchanged, and work still needed to be done. It was bizarre, but not surprising. Thinking on it, when weren't there monsters? When weren't human beings in a constant state of fear? When wasn't someone watching? Before he knew about Entities and rituals and avatars, Martin knew what it was like to be afraid all the time. The world, in general, was a frightening place to exist. However the Entities manifested, they were merely extensions of a person's psyche and physicality. Everyone carried their fear with them, everyone was marked in some way. It was just more obvious now.

Jon, though...Jon bore the marks of all the Fears.

Stocking up on bread, meat, cheese, and plenty of non-perishable items, Martin returned to their safe house. Jon hadn't left their bedroom in three days, too shocked and guilt ridden to look outside or ask for comfort. Martin gave him his space to a degree, but he refused to let Jon sink any further into his fugue state. He made sure to touch his arm or brush his fingers through his wavy length of hair. The day previous, he'd gathered him into a hug that the other barely returned, but Martin felt him squeeze back and that was his little victory. Jon had trusted him, waited for him, gone into the Lonely for him and Martin was determined to make sure that last sacrifice was repaid in kind.

"Jon, I got those oatmeal bars you like at the shop. All of them, actually. Who knows when they'll be available what with the...Jon?"

He was sitting in the middle of the living room, a fire already crackling, staring into the flames as he rocked back and forth. His hands covered his ears as if he was trying to block something out and his eyes were pitch black where there should have been white, the natural hazel turned a sickly green.

"Make it stop...please...please," he muttered. "It's too loud. Please...please...stop playing..."

"Jon? What's happening? Jon, can you hear me?" Martin said. He sat in front of him, blocking the firelight. He took Jon's hands and tried to lift them away from his ears, but he pulled free and kept them firmly planted on either side of his head. The rocking and muttering increased.

"It won't stop...the music...please...please...make it stop..."

"What music? Jon, what do you hear?"

"The pipes - the Piper...the calliope...the blood...it won't stop...please...please...stop..."

Panic set in as Martin realized something awful. Placing his hands over Jon's, still letting them cover his ears, he looked into his blackened eyes. "Jon, it's Martin. Listen to me, okay? Listen to the sound of my voice. Don't listen to the music. Just my voice. Okay? You're in Scotland. We're in Daisy's safe house. I was just down in the village getting supplies..."

Martin continued to talk. He didn't stop, hoping that his stream of consciousness would eventually drown out whatever music was haunting Jon. Ten minutes later, give or take, he felt Jon's hands softly lift away, testing the noise level. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head like a wet dog drying off. Martin sighed in relief when he saw hazel eyes set against their white background staring back.

"Martin," Jon said, his voice low and hushed.

"Where were you, Jon?" Martin asked.

"Everywhere," he said. "I could hear it, plain as if they were standing in the doorway. There were...people, regular people and...the Eye..."

"It was showing you," Martin finished. His fists curled in anger. "It wants you to share in the horrors of others."

"I'm the archive of terror," Jon said with a defeated tone. "It's adding to the collection."

***

The next day, Jon experienced someone attacked by the Buried. He gasped for air, pulling at the collar of his shirt, practically clawing at his throat for release. The deep black lingered in his eyes longer than before.

Two days later, while they were fixing lunch, he stopped mid-sentence and plunged the bread knife into his hand. He would've gone for his neck if not for Martin grappling him to the floor. Jon kicked and screamed, his body strained and fighting as angry bile spilled from his mouth.

Another two days and there was a putrid smelling abscess on his arm that spread, blackening his veins as it crept along his skin. He was feverish, burning up as his body tried to fight something that was real and imaginary. Martin could only sit by, helpless to do anything except talk to him as he fought his way back. But each time the Watcher took him, he stayed away longer and longer. When he came back, the look in his eyes - haunted, miserable, and yet resigned to his fate - told Martin everything. Like after the Unknowing, Jon was willing to punish himself out of guilt. Suffering was his atonement for bringing the end of the world.

Martin was done letting Jon suffer.

***

A week later and he felt the cold chill of the Lonely on Jon's skin. There was no fog, no barren seaside, but Jon had a translucent quality that made him easy to overlook. Martin had, ashamedly, forgotten he was in the bedroom for the first day. If he wasn't looking at Jon directly, it was easy enough to forget he was there at all. Memories of his own brief, yet agonizingly long, time spent in the Lonely ignited his resolve to help Jon, no matter what.

When three days passed and Jon was still trapped in someone's Lonely nightmare, Martin felt that resolve strengthen even as panic and fear warred from within. The Watcher wasn't letting him go and Martin was tired of waiting. They were already in Hell and he wasn't about to let Jon bear this burden without a fight. Throwing off the blanket, Martin gathered Jon into his arms. His eyes were still black and that ugly shade of green, but they were distant, slack like the rest of his body. The shivering was reflexive, but Martin still held Jon close to keep him warm. Taking a deep breath, he leaned in and whispered in Jon's ear:

"I'm done. You hear me? You've had your fun with him, but no more. I won't allow you to make him suffer more than he already has because of you and your damn hungry-eyed terror. He played his part. You won. Now. Let. Him. Go."

Jon's shivering increased until it felt more like he was convulsing. Martin kept his hold firm. He wouldn't let go. Jon deserved someone who would fight for him. Everyone else had given up, wrote him off for actions beyond his control. Martin wouldn't leave him, not again. They were in this together, until the bitter end.

He stopped convulsing and Martin felt Jon's arms and legs moving of their own free will, no longer limp and weakened from the Lonely's influence. When he looked at his face, though, the eyes were still black and green, but they were looking at Martin with sinister fascination. Jon's body moved out of his grasp, sitting at a distance on the bed, but poised like a feral cat eager to hunt.

"_**You desire his freedom? **_" said a deep, distorted voice that thundered from Jon's mouth.

Steeling himself despite the very obvious fear he felt in addressing the Eye, Martin said, "He's not yours anymore. He's mine."

The thing wearing Jon laughed in a whining, high-pitched static. "_**You would claim this broken vessel as your own? What possible use is it to you? **_"

"What do you care? You got what you wanted. The whole world is yours to watch," he said. He reached out, forgetting it wasn't Jon he was speaking to, and cupped his cheek. "Just...let him have something good. A moment of happiness before you snuff us all out. Hasn't he earned that?"

The Watcher recoiled from the affection, swatting Martin's hand away. The blackened eyes regarded him coolly, but seemed to be taking his words under consideration.

"_**Very well**_," it said. "_**Let him earn it. I look forward to watching you both fail**_."

"What?"

The Watcher snapped Jon's fingers and Martin watched as Jon's eyes filled with brightness and color, settling back into their natural state. He blinked slowly, his vision gradually coming back into focus. When they locked eyes, Jon gave a relieved, if somewhat lopsided, smile.

"Jon? How do you feel?"

"I'm...I'm not sure. Confused, mostly," he said. He glanced over the state of the room and pointed at Martin's clothes. "You weren't wearing...how long was I gone?"

"Three days," Martin said quietly. "It might've been longer if I hadn't..."

Jon waited, impatiently, for the conclusion. "Hadn't what?"

"I think - I think I made a deal with...the...Eye--"

"YOU WHAT?!!"

"Calm down, calm down, Jon. I was - I was getting tired of w-watching you suffer. So I - I told it to stop. To let you go," Martin explained. Jon was turning an alarming shade of red as he continued. "And I said you deserved some happiness. You'd earned it after suffering so much. It...seemed to agree? And I might've claimedyouasmyown."

Jon started and stopped speaking several times as he processed Martin's words. It would've been funny if Martin wasn't terrified of what he was going to say. Finally, Jon decided against speaking entirely and opted instead to throw his arms around Martin like they had so many times after leaving the Lonely. The hug communicated everything that needed to be said: gratitude, sadness, hope, love, all of it wrapped up in their arms and the tear-stained patches left on their shirts.

"I don't deserve you," Jon whispered.

"You walked into the Lonely for me, Jon," Martin said. "Why wouldn't I be willing to bargain with the Watcher for you?"

"What does that mean, though?" Jon asked.

Martin shrugged. "I have no idea. It was just ominous and said you could earn it and it _looked forward to watching us fail_," he said, taking on a spooky intonation. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Jon let himself chuckle. It quickly turned into a yawn as he realized how tired he was. Martin took his hand, tugging him to his feet as he gathered the blankets.

"Come on, let's go warm up by the fire. We'll figure out the rest in the morning."

"Yeah."

Jon turned off the lantern and staggered towards Martin, the couch, and the promise of warmth and sleep. He was too tired to notice that the moonlight from the outside didn't enter the bedroom. Even the lingering glow of the lantern was washed out by darkness. And in the pitch black, a low growl rumbled as heavy feet with sharpened claws scratched at the floor. It paced, back and forth, waiting for the shadows to guide it towards its prey.


	2. The 1st Labor - Slay the Beast in the Dark

There was no light when Jon opened his eyes. They'd fallen asleep on the couch, slumped together in a pile of exhaustion and blankets that left Jon's head resting on Martin's stomach; legs stretched out horizontally on the cushions while Martin took the vertical, feet on the flimsy card table they pulled from the closet. He remembered the heat and light of the fire, the dancing flames lulling him back to sleep, but now all he could smell were embers and smoke. He looked towards the window and he understood that, despite the Watcher's presence, there was still a moon in the sky and there was light outside the safe house. Inside, however, was another story. He put his hand in front of his face, reached out for the moonlight that should have been filling the room or at least casting a dim glow, but there was nothing. Just darkness.

There was a rumble, too, a deep and unnatural sound that spoke of unchallenged power with each passing millennia. The first Fear, the one every child knows and every adult tries to forget. He could feel the vibrations - a chorus of growls, snarls, hissing, and howls - in his bones and he remembered being alone in a room not his own, his grandmother's newest burden, staring into the shadows and wondering what monsters would claim him when he closed his eyes. If only he'd known then what awaited him.

He reached for Martin, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. He started poking and slapping him, lightly but forcefully. "Martin. Martin, wake up!"

The growling shifted, jumping from left to right. Closer. It had claws that scraped across the floor and teeth that gnashed together, wet with saliva and blood. Another, harder, slap went to Martin's chest and the younger man coughed himself into wakefulness. "Jon, what's--?"

"There's something here," he said quickly. "The Dark, the-the creature that killed Robert Montauk...or another one like it"

He felt Martin's hand find his. Slowly, Martin brought his feet down, readying himself in case they had to run. "Where is it?"

"Can't you hear it?" Jon asked. As if to emphasize his question, the fearsome creature circled them, scraping and gnashing and thundering its steps for the fun of it. It was taking its time because it could, because they were alone, out in the middle of nowhere, and no one was going to save them. Jon felt Martin shaking, adrenaline coursing through his veins. They had to get out or they were as good as dead...at least Martin was.

"W-what do we - what do we do?" Martin asked.

"Make a run for it?" Jon suggested. "Out the door, see if the moon might provide some protection."

"Seriously? That's your--"

"_Run outside, Martin. Be safe_," Jon said, letting the compulsion do its work. He felt Martin's hand slip from his. He heard bare feet race across the floor. The door opened and slammed shut. He was alone with the beast. It didn't stray from it's prowling circle, letting the hopefully less inviting prey escape for the time being. It wasn't interested in the chase. It wanted the unfiltered fear that came with the knowledge that it would inflict an agonizingly painful death, striking without warning and without a chance to see it coming. It fed off the anticipation and the brief moment between life and death where fear flourished.

Jon stood, keeping his movements slow and quiet as possible. Not that it mattered. It was a creature bred for the Dark, a stalker intent on getting the most out of its meal. Was it even worth it to run? Could the beast kill him if he was an avatar? After everything he'd faced, everything he'd...seen...

"I saw the Dark Sun," he whispered. The heavy steps that were pacing in a loose circle picked up speed. The growling and hissing and howling became louder, the vibrations making his body ache and his knees strain to support his desire to stand. He felt the air pick up as the beast ran faster and faster, a dervish of claws and teeth that pressed in closer, nipping and scratching at his skin. His face felt wet. Was he crying? Bleeding? Maybe both. "I Know your kind. I Know your fear. You think the shadows conceal you. You think the pitch black makes you powerful, untouchable, but you're wrong."

He closed his eyes and though there was no change in the scenery it helped him focus. He opened his mind, drinking in the darkness as the statements invaded his thoughts, bringing the pieces together until he knew what to look for. When he opened his eyes, there was a shape outlined in the faintest glimmer of light streaking by. He didn't let on until he saw the creature push in to strike with its claw, sidestepping the attack by an inch.

"_**I. See. You**_," Jon said, letting the full impact of his power slam into the creature. It lost momentum, stumbling over its own legs as it skid across the floor. It was laid out by the entrance, blocking any chance at escape. If the way out wasn't an option, then Jon knew there was only one thing left to do. As the creature scrambled upright, Jon ran into the kitchen. The darkness was no longer a hindrance. He could See without the benefit of sight. Jerking the utensil drawer open, he grabbed one of the many knives they'd uncovered among Daisy's well hidden arsenal - this one was a serrated blade he'd used to cut bread the other morning - and lunged it at the beast just as its claws raked down his left shoulder. Blade and claw made contact with flesh as Jon and the beast screamed and howled in painful unison. Pulling the blade free, Jon lashed again and again and again. He refused to be a passive bystander to his own death. He refused to let the Dark take him. He refused to let the beast live long enough to hurt Martin.

Eventually, the wet sounds of the knife sinking into flesh died along with the last lingering whimper. The body slumped forward, threatening to crush Jon beneath it. He tried to direct the dead weight, but felt the snap of the beast's claw break from the massive limb and the red hot pain of it still embedded in his burning, bloody shoulder. He vaguely heard the sound of the door opening as he was bathed in moonlight pouring into the cabin.

"JON!!!" Martin shouted, his voice a mixture of fear and anger. He was barely two steps in when he saw the creature's corpse dissolving in the moonlight and the swaying, exhausted, but still standing, mess that was Jonathan Sims.

Attempting a confident smile, Jon felt his vision narrow to a pinprick, the pull of sleep overwhelming his senses. He just needed to reassure Martin that everything was fine. That he was fine and they were safe. "It's - it's al-alright, Ma-Mar...tin..."

He fell forward into strong, shaking arms that rattled his injured shoulder. He was too far gone to care or protest. He vaguely heard Martin calling his name, but the darkness made a better offer and he gratefully sank into painless oblivion.

***

Martin's leg bounced with nervous energy. He'd turned on every lantern they had and built the biggest fire he could to tend to Jon's wounds. He'd have made the safe house into a beacon of light if it were possible, anything to drive the darkness far, far away. There was nothing left of the beast except a wisp of ashes. some errant body parts, and the claw jutting from Jon's shoulder. He laid Jon on the couch, propping him up with one of their sleeping bags and the only two pillows Daisy thought to keep around. Blood soaked the left half of his shirt and after removing the stained clothing, Martin gagged looking at the open, angry claw marks stretching from Jon's shoulder to his chest. Letting the smaller gashes close up on their own, Martin, bracing himself, inspected the larger wounds. They didn't look infected, but there was a dark outline to the skin as it knit together at the narrowest opening. Another scar, another mark on Jon's body for the archives.

He stared at the claw, knowing it had to come out, but unsure if it would wake Jon in the process. He deserved some rest, but leaving the claw in the wound would only hurt him more. Taking some gauze from the emergency kit, he wrapped it around the juncture where the claw met skin. Gripping the knuckle where the claw had been torn away, Martin pulled it free without hesitation. The scream from Jon was immediate and excruciating in its intensity. Eyes open and staring wildly without clarity, Jon instinctively tried to pull away from the source of pain. The movement only aggravated the still healing wounds as he pressed himself further into the sofa.

"Jon! Jon - no, no, no - Jon, it's okay. It's okay. Shhhh, it's okay, love, I've got you," Martin soothed. The scream petered out into heavy, labored breaths, which Martin took to mean Jon was calming down. Then he heard the faint sound of static creep into each breath until Jon was chuckling in stereo. The unsightly green and black filled his eyes once again as Martin found himself talking directly to the Watcher.

"_**We have a fighter, it would seem. Interesting**_," it said, gleefully watching the pained expression on Martin's face as it spoke through Jon. "_**One down, thirteen to go**_."

"What? What does that--?"

The Watcher was already gone, but Jon's eyes - now returned to normal - were open and searching the room, wary of the beast he'd fought regardless of his victory. Martin let him take his time to refocus, smiling in relief when Jon finally recognized him and the safety of the firelight and lanterns. He took a deep breath as if to speak, but Martin held out a stern finger, derailing those plans with one of his own.

"Never...and I mean _never_ compel me to abandon you, Jon," he said. He wasn't yelling or shouting, but Jon could feel the bubbling anger and betrayal in the slight shake of his voice. Never mind the Entities, the fear he felt staring into Martin tearful eyes was worse than any mark he could've received. Reaching out, he took Martin's trembling hand in his, both gripping with such ferocity they were liable to break the fingers of the other.

"Martin, I...I'm not sorry I did it," he said quietly. He felt Martin's grip lessen, but he kept hold, turning his achingly wrecked body so they were staring face to face. "I knew I had the better chance of surviving if it was intent to kill. I mean...look at me. Even the shoulder wounds are mostly healed. But if it went after you...you don't have the same advantages. It was safer to get you out of the way."

"_Safer_?! How was sending me outside, in full view of the Watcher safer?" Martin asked incredulously. "I was just as vulnerable to attack out there as you were in here! You promised, Jon! You promised me I wasn't alone anymore...and I was alone out there listening to you fight that thing and I...I couldn't move. I couldn't help you!"

It was a revelation Jon didn't expect to have listening to Martin. In the moment, in his panic, his only motivation was to keep Martin safe. He hadn't considered the other side of it, what his actions looked like to Martin. It was a betrayal of everything he'd promised not to do when they'd come out of the Lonely together. They loved each other, but love wasn't just about words spoken after years left unsaid. It was as much, if not more so, dependent on actions. He could confess to needing Martin for all eternity, but the second he forced him out against his will was a red flag on what it meant to be together in the Jonah Magnus's new world.

He leaned in, cupping Martin's face in his hands while gently pressing their foreheads together. Martin tried to resist, but they were both too easily swayed towards forgiveness where the other was concerned. He let out a gasp of air, tears spilling down his cheeks as the events of the night, of the last few weeks, caught up to him. Jon didn't dare try to stop such a necessary release. All he could do, all he had to do, was hold the man he loved.

"I-I am sorry, Martin," he began. "I know I made a promise, but...if that thing had killed you. If it took you away from me...it would've killed me all the same. I don't - I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd rather the world burn, then live another second without you in it."

"That's horrible, Jon," Martin sniffled, though there was no anger behind it.

He let out an uneasy chuckle. "I honestly don't care."

"Well I do," Martin said, pulling away to look at Jon with stern yet loving eyes. "And it wouldn't be any easier for me if you'd died and I could have helped you fight back. It's not a coincidence that I demanded your freedom from the Watcher and a beast from the Dark attacked within a few hours. It came through, again, after I pulled the claw from your shoulder."

"What did it say?"

"One down, thirteen to go."

Jon took it in, thinking through every possible meaning behind the limited information provided. His eyes went wide with sudden insight that turned to a subtle nod of understanding. "Fourteen marks to open the door. Fourteen labors of atonement."

"What does that mean?"

"It means--"

A lonesome, anguished howl cut through the conversation. It sounded far off, but Jon was instantly on his feet, eyes growing not in fear but recognition. "Daisy..."

"Daisy?! Jon, is she-is she here? What-what do we do?"

Still a bit unsteady, Jon let Martin keep him upright as he lead them to the bedroom. "Get dressed. We're going out."

"Out where?"

"Hunting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:   
MAG 9 - A Father's Love  
MAG 143 - Heart of Darkness


	3. The 2nd Labor - Stop the Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art from the amazing Cary Atherton: https://cary-atherton-art.tumblr.com/image/610959316415037440

It was a mad scramble to put on proper clothes for the outdoors, but they managed to rush out the door in record time. The safe house, from the outside, looked like a plain, simple cottage one might find on calendars or memes about self-help and life enrichment. It was quaint enough to look like it belonged, which made it utterly invisible to those living in the area. Set against the backdrop of a swirling sky that now sported an All-Seeing Eye as a new addition, however, made it look like the dastardly hideaway of witch trying really hard not to let her neighbors know she went dancing with the Devil's coven every night.

The strangest part was there were still nights and days to observe. The sun and the moon still appeared in the sky and the Watcher was just there as if it were perfectly normal to have such a monstrosity present at all times. It was an odd thing to wonder about the physics of a world overrun by entities of fear, but sometimes it was the odd thoughts that kept Jon from completely losing his mind.

Still, there was the immediate and physical weight of the Watcher's gaze the moment they left the cottage. Not that they didn't feel it when they were inside, but being out in the open in ostensibly the middle of nowhere with the sparse patch of trees for cover clearly left them exposed. Jon shook the feeling off as much as he could and started walking in a northerly direction. Martin caught up quickly and deposited the gift of cutlery into Jon's hand.

"Just in case," Martin said. He nodded. Looking at his new weapon of choice, Jon noticed it was the same knife he'd used to stab the beast in the Dark. There was still some black ichor on the blade. Jon didn't normally play into superstition, but having the same knife made him feel safer, like the blood already spilt would somehow contribute to any other stupidly necessary melee encounters. He gripped the handle tightly.

"What about you?" From his coat, Martin pulled out one of the many pistols they'd found hidden around the cottage. There was a miserable yet determined look on Martin's face broadcasting his discomfort with the weapon. "You - do you know how to...?"

"You were in a coma for six months, Jon. I learned to do a lot of things," was all he offered in response. Before he could ask any followup questions, another howl pierced the relative silence and was answered by a human scream.

"Dammit!" Jon shouted as he took off running.

"J-Jon! Wait!" Martin shouted after him.

Even in his weakened state, Jon was still faster than Martin. He'd become an expert at running away from monsters, so it made sense that he'd be just as good at running towards them. The knife was a new variable, but he made sure to keep it away from his body especially after the first time he slipped and nearly fell on the wet grass. He was very aware that Daisy might not be the originator of the howl, but he had to hope she'd somehow make her way here. Whether it was instinct or familiarity or just the pure desire to hunt, Jon had to believe something good was on the horizon of this Hellscape he'd ushered into realness. Following the sounds of terror, Jon crested a small hill and saw the moonlit tableau of a middle aged man flat on his back, face gripped in panic, as the elongated limbs of a werewolf sank their claws into his chest, arm, and legs in one great leap.

He Knew it wasn't Daisy when he saw the creature. It was Trevor Herbert gone feral and the sight of him spiked Jon's anger as his hopes were dashed before he'd had a chance to let them be fully realized. One kindness, one page burnt, and it led to another friend lost. He'd tried to be sympathetic to Julia Montauk's life and the circumstances that led her to cross paths with Trevor, he'd even admired the man for his dogged pursuit of killing monsters. Now, though, he wanted nothing more than for the pair to suffer at the whim of whatever Entity was available to make those desires come true. For now, the only thing he could do was save the man beneath his claws.

"Trevor!" Jon shouted. The werewolf's head turned instantly in his direction, eyes practically glowing as they narrowed on the idiot flapping his arms and brandishing a knife. "Trevor, stop! Leave him alone and - and - and come hunt a real monster! Right here! You've wanted this since the day we met so...here's the best chance you'll ever have!"

The man on the ground whimpered and cried out as the beast scraped its claws across his body one last time. Its arms dragged along its sides as it cautiously stepped away from the prone figure, eyes never straying from Jon. The advantage was Jon's, so to speak. The curse of Hunters was in their designation. They lived and thrived off the chase, not necessarily the kill. If he could keep Trevor trained on him, use his need to hunt against him, then he could at least save the poor man he'd almost killed. One hunt ended, another begun. At least that was Jon's absolutely baseless theory. Unfortunately, it was the only plan available in the short time he'd had to conceive it.

He watched as the werewolf dipped it's head, ears at attention to take in the ambient noise of its surroundings. Its nose flared as it took in the scent flowing down from the hill. Each step forward became more confident, more sure of its new quarry. It took in deeper breaths, the scent of a new chase too intoxicating to pass up. Teeth bared, mouth foaming with hunger and adrenaline, the Hunter charged ahead.

"Shit!" Jon shouted.

"Jon!" Martin cried.

Three shots rang out. Instinctively, Jon threw himself flat on the ground, the knife dislodged from his hand on impact. He heard the werewolf cry out in pain, but a quick inspection revealed that only one bullet hit and it appeared to have merely grazed the upper arm. It gave Jon the moment he needed to grab the knife and spring to his feet as he rushed towards Martin.

"I thought you said you learned to shoot!"

"That doesn't mean my aim's worth anything!"

The snarling growl of the Hunter cut them to the core. The wound an afterthought, it's eyes were trained on them, pupils blown wide with darkness and hunger. Jon grabbed Martin with his free hand, jerking him in the opposite direction.

"Argue later! Run now!"

"Right!"

There was no way they'd be able to outrun Trevor. In his current form it was only a matter of time before he caught up and ripped them apart. But the hunt wouldn't end for him after they were dispatched. Fear and terror were in the ultimate positions of power and the world had suddenly become a Hunter's dream of monsters in need of killing. Those in the innocent majority, however, were just collateral damage. In his feral state there was nothing stopping Trevor Herbert from massacring the Scottish Highlands for the thrill of it. If they could end it here, then there was at least a chance for others to survive.

He Knew Trevor was close, could practically smell his fetid breath. It was now or be eaten. Dropping Martin's hand, Jon fell to one knee and let the Hunter's momentum impale him on the knife as he stabbed towards the gut. Or, that's what he'd intended to happen until his Knowing perked up again just as the second werewolf sideswiped Trevor, sending the two beasts rolling across the grass. He fell backwards but kept his eyes on the two, a smile spreading across his face when the intruding werewolf's identity came to him.

"Daisy," he said. He felt Martin abruptly lift him to his feet.

"What the hell was that?!" Martin shouted.

"It's Daisy," Jon said. The two werewolves gained their footing and started slashing at each other, growling and snapping their teeth in hopes of tearing off more flesh.

"No, Jon. You let go of my hand!"

Jon stared at him in confusion. "What?"

"You let go and tried to stab a werewolf!"

"You tried to shoot him!"

"That's not the same thing!"

"How is it not the same thing?"

"Because you put yourself in danger. Again. We just had this conversation!"

"We discussed my compulsion power being used against you, not trying to stop a werewolf from potentially killing his way across the country!" The absurdity of the situation was more than Jon could bear. Here they were, arguing like a married couple over who moved the silverware from one drawer to another while two ravenous beasts tore each other apart not ten feet away. He could smell the blood and that could only be fueling the Hunters despite their increasing exhaustion.

"You let go," Martin whispered. His eyes were bright and wet against the moonlight. Jon wanted nothing more than to reassure him, kiss away whatever awful thoughts were invading his mind, but their argument was short-lived when they heard the death knell roar of Trevor Herbert. Daisy sank her glistening teeth into his neck, ripping out his throat as her claws sank into his chest and rent his heart out in a burst of blood and gore. There was no posthumous transformation, just the lifeless body of an oversized, distorted wolf once known as Trevor Herbert: Vampire Hunter. His anger notwithstanding, Jon felt a pang of sorrow for the man. He'd been traumatized as a child, driven by guilt to avenge his brother and stop the monsters stalking the shadows. He'd tried to do some good and it'd all gone sideways. His reward was death and, on some level, Jon envied him.

"Jon..." Martin said, his voice hushed yet urgent. Her kill completed, Daisy turned to the two living bodies that likely smelled of sweat and fear. They were too far from the cottage and too close to the Hunter. There was no running start this time and she knew it. Her steps were menacing in their unhurried pace. One leap and she'd be on them. She could sprint and flay their bodies with her claws before they knew they'd been cut. They had to deal with this now or let the inevitable mauling happen. Jon felt Martin grab his hand, fingers strained against the force of his shaking grip. He looked at him, the man that was his partner in the Apocalypse; who yelled at him because he cared and loved him regardless of werewolves fighting in the background. And then a thought occurred.

"Martin, I have an idea," he said. "I might be able to get her back...back to being Daisy."

"How?" Martin asked, his voice shaking as much as his hand. Jon squeezed back.

"Just...don't let go," he said. Martin nodded, letting Jon take the lead. Throwing the knife to the ground, Jon put his hand forward and kept his eyes low. He doubted she thought of him as a threat, but it was better to play into the predatory instincts for now. "Daisy! It's Jon...and Martin. You've found us and we're incredible grateful for that, but...we need you to change back. The hunt - the hunt's over."

She snarled in response, saliva and blood spraying in their faces.

"I don't think she's buying it," Martin said in the heightened, sing-song tone he used when he was scared.

"Yes, I can see that," Jon said out of the corner of his mouth. Addressing Daisy again, "Fine, you don't care that it's us. Fair enough. But Basira cares about you...and you care about Basira."

The werewolf stopped, a pained look in her eyes that didn't originate from any physical wound. Her head shook furiously and when she looked back towards them her growls and snarls carried less force. Still holding Martin's hand, Jon inched his foot slightly forward. She watched, but didn't snap back in retaliation.

"You want to see her again, yeah? She wants to see you too, but...not like this," Jon said in a soothing voice. Another inch forward, hand still outstretched, eyes still low and submissive. She stayed perfectly still, but let him move. The whine in her nose sounded less wolfish, closer to a scared dog. Martin tugged at his hand as he pushed forward, reluctant to close the gap. Jon squeezed his hand reassuringly, returning the tug to bring him along. "I can help you, Daisy. I didn't leave you in the Buried and I won't let you succumb to the Hunt."

Another step. There was a faint growl, but not enough to scare him off. He could feel the warmth of her snout on his leading hand. She sniffed and huffed before the gentlest touch of her wet nose made contact. "Remember, don't listen to the blood. Listen to the quiet. Don't listen to the blood. Listen to the quiet..."

He closed his eyes and gathered what he needed: every moment between Daisy and Basira. He saw them all as the past became real in his mind's eye. The day they first met. Every sectioned case that left them bleeding and leaning on one another. The worry in Basira's eyes as Daisy slipped further and further away. The Magnus Institute and Elias. Daisy's concern for Basira as the dreams kept her awake. The deaths they prevented and the deaths they caused. Daisy's fire and rage. Basira's logic and calm. After Daisy came out of the Buried and her slow decline ignoring the Hunt. The last time they saw each other. So much love and loyalty, fear and trust. He took it all in and gave it back to her.

Martin instantly saw the change in his body language, the pain on his furrowed brow as he used his power. "Jon..."

"Listen to the quiet," he said, channeling his energy. If Elias could show people the worst of others, the worst moments of their lives and the lives of their loved ones, then he could do the opposite. He could give Daisy that anchor once again. He could give her Basira. Daisy reared back as the knowledge, the memories, the thoughts and emotions entered her mind. She howled, a mournful cry that rang through their ears. It stung of loss and despair, but Jon wouldn't relent. She deserved a chance, a real chance, and the only way that was going to happen was if the Hunt was gone from her completely.

"Don't. Listen. To. The. Blood," he said through gritted teeth.

"J-Jon, what're you doing?" Martin asked. Blood dripped from Jon's nose as Daisy continued to howl, but he could hear the distinct sound of Daisy's real voice coming through. There was less wolf and more human as claws became fingers and toes, fur fell away to reveal skin and hair. Teeth and limbs reduced in size and in the span of seconds there she was - thinner than before but still very much Daisy Tonner.

Jon wasn't done.

"No more blood," Jon said.

"Jon! You can stop now! It's over!" Martin shouted.

"No more blood," Jon repeated. He kept his focus on Daisy. She was a survivor. If she could endure this, then she could endure a little more. He'd given back what made her human. All that was left was to rip out the Fear. "No more Hunt!"

Jon pulled and Daisy screamed.

He was an archive of terror, a vessel for fear, so he did exactly what he was chosen for and dragged every moment and thought and emotion tied to the Hunt and let it flow into him. The adrenaline took his breath away as every sectioned chase and all of Daisy's side hunts steamrolled into his mind. It was raw and pure and for the briefest moment he felt his teeth sharpen as a low growl gathered in his throat. He was thorough in his pursuit, extracting and cauterizing the gaps; enough to keep her alive and whole without fading away. He felt his legs weakening, his hand slipping, but Martin was still there and he held on tight enough for two. 

"Jon!"

"Just...another...second!"

He cataloged the moments with swiftness, cobbling together a special file cabinet and shoved it behind door after door after door with every chain and padlock he could conjure. If the Eye wanted it, then it would have to work for it. What was one Hunter against the rest of the world? His will abated as did Daisy's screams. Lowering his hand, he felt his body momentarily slump before Martin pulled him back into his arms. Head throbbing, pulse pounding, he gazed up into Martin's eyes and smiled.

"I did it!" he exclaimed softly.

"Wha - what did you do?" Martin asked. He looked so confused and Jon felt his heart burst at how endearing it was. Or his heart was literally bursting. It was hard to tell at the moment.

"I took it all out," he said, chuckling softly. His voice was ragged, the last few hours settling over him like a blanket of exhaustion. Even to his own ears he sounded like a raving lunatic. "The Hunt. I took it. Extracted it. All the raw data...gone!"

"Where is it now?" Martin asked, though he already knew the answer. 

Smiling sadly, tears forming in his eyes as blood trickled from his nose, Jon pointed at his head. "It's in the archives."

"Jon--"

"No, not - not now, Martin," he said. "I - Daisy!"

Pulling himself into an upright position, he rushed over to Daisy's prone form. She was unconscious but alive and very naked. Removing his coat, Jon covered her and indicated for Martin to do the same. Lifting her into his arms, Martin carried her back to the cottage with Jon slowly following from behind. Trevor's body was only a few feet away, but he couldn't bring himself to do more than hope he decayed quickly. Maybe the ground would swallow him whole. It didn't seem so farfetched given the status of their world.

Once they were inside, Martin laid Daisy on the couch and set to starting a fire while Jon hovered nearby. They were mindful of the leftover bits of the Dark creature not exposed to light and tossed them into the fire like kindling. The only thing left of it was the claw he'd gotten lodged in Jon's shoulder. His own little trophy.

"Ohhhh," Daisy moaned. Jon and Martin kept at a distance, but stayed close as Daisy came to. Eyes open, blue and clear, she took in her surroundings and made short work of the gamut of emotions that crossed her face: confusion, anger, confusion, more confusion, guilt, and finally relief before she realized she was naked under two winter coats and Jon and Martin were standing by waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sighing heavily, she covered her reddening face and said, "There's a trunk under the floorboard of the bed. Should have clothes for me to wear."

"Didn't even think to search under there," Martin said as he went to retrieve the item. Jon fidgeted for a few seconds before dragging a chair over, sitting at a comfortable distance with his back to the fire.

"I don't...feel it anymore. The Hunt, the blood, it's...gone," Daisy said. She looked at him, momentarily confused, but just as quickly fitting the pieces together. "You--?"

"Yeah," Jon said. There was no need to explain, she knew. The Hunt didn't give her those instincts; that was purely Daisy. She reached out to him, a tentative shaking hand that he gladly took with his own. She smiled gratefully, the firelight reflected in her tears.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Coughing uncomfortably, Jon pulled away. Better to let Daisy think the best of him before she found out about what he'd actually done to negate her gratitude. "Yes, well, I--"

"Got it!" Martin exclaimed, entering the room with the medium-sized trunk. As he moved, there was the distinct sound of something rolling around inside. "Lemme guess: more guns, knives, and ammunition?"

"That's in the other trunk," she said. Gathering the coats around her, she followed Martin towards the bathroom. Dropping the trunk in the tiny space, he scurried away to give her privacy. He found Jon staring into the fire when he returned, kneading his hands in worry.

He must have felt Martin's presence when he said, "I didn't mean to let go."

Martin sighed. "I know."

"I thought stabbing Trevor would buy us some time."

He moved closer to Jon's side. "I know."

"I didn't - didn't want him to hurt you."

He knelt in front of the chair, tipping Jon's chin up so he could see his face properly. "I know."

"Please stop saying that."

Martin gave him a quick up-and-down assessment. Tired eyes met tired eyes and Martin was out of words to say, so he kissed Jon gently, lovingly, and laced their fingers together in response.

"Sleep now. Argue later?" he said.

Jon nodded. "Best plan I've been part of tonight."

When Daisy emerged in sweatpants and a T-shirt, they decided to fill her in in the morning. She reluctantly agreed, though her massive yawn in the middle of demanding answers did little to sway them to her cause. Jon and Martin stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing on the bed in a heap of tired limbs while Daisy remained on the couch under as many blankets as they could spare. Sleep came quickly to all of them, a quiet respite before the new day greeted them with whatever new hell awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm playing a bit fast and loose with Jon's Beholding powers, but it seemed plausible enough that I went with it!
> 
> TMA Episodes referenced:  
MAG 10 - Vampire Killer  
MAG 109 - Nightfall  
MAG 117 - Testament  
MAG 132 - Entombed  
MAG 153 - Love Bombing


	4. The 3rd Labor - Bury the Vast

The morning brought them a grey, cheerless sky and heavy raindrops warning them of the impending storm. Martin stared at the ceiling, listening to the falling rain while studying the divots in the painted plaster like they would reveal the answers he desired. He'd demanded Jon's freedom and the Watcher agreed, but the circumstances of that release were unknown...at least to him. Jon seemed to understand what was happening having the "advantage" of being the Eye's avatar, but they'd run out to find Daisy before any explanation was had. Martin wondered if Jon would bother to explain. He was so determined to punish himself for his unwilling participation in Jonah Magus's plan that all rationality and self-preservation fell away when they were needed most. His actions in the last twenty-four hours made his priorities devastatingly clear: Jon would take every blow, bullet, and bite without question and to hell with the consequences. His body would heal and scar for his struggles, but Martin worried more for his soul.

During their honeymoon period, Jon had been sleeping better, eating food other than statements, and living as normally as they could under the circumstances, but he still carried that haunted look in his eyes that spoke of pain beyond human comprehension. Nightmares plagued them both, but Jon soldiered on like there was nothing to be done. Every time he chose to distance himself, suffering in silence like it was his lot in life, Martin felt his heart break and his anger redouble. Now, though, some of that anger was aimed at himself. Whatever was happening with the Watcher, Martin was just as responsible for Jon's renewed sacrificial efforts. He'd made a deal, sort of, and the prize was Jon, making him no better than Peter Lukas or Jonah Magnus. Instead of caring for Jon, protecting him, he'd put him in the most dangerous position possible.

"You've been sighing and fidgeting for almost an hour," Jon grumbled tiredly into his pillow. "Either talk to me or go brood in the kitchen."

Most people would've been thrown off by the harsh words so early in the morning. Martin, however, heard the concern beneath the prickly veneer. 

"Only an hour? Felt longer," Martin said in response. He turned towards Jon, smiling fondly at the mess of wild hair and the array of angles sticking up and against Jon's head. He normally tied it back before sleeping, but the events of last night had left little room for thoughts beyond collapsing on the bed and losing consciousness. Sensing the reason for Martin's delight, Jon quickly smoothed his hair down as much as possible. Martin helped, taming an errant lock before changing course and cupping Jon's cheek, gliding his thumb across soft and scarred skin. The worm marks were the most visible, a glaring reminder of Jon's bloody baptism into being the Archivist. It wasn't fair that Jon had so many and Martin so few - a testament to his own cowardice.

"Another dream?" Jon asked gently. He was at his least comfortable when expressing affection. Jon was more inclined to mask his softer endearments under reliable emotions like annoyance and worry. It was clear that past, and possibly recent, relationships had trampled over an already bruised and battered heart, but Martin could read his voice perfectly. The soft, hushed tone was practically shouting, "I love you and I'm concerned!"

Martin shook his head. "Just thinking. It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Jon said. He sat up against the wall, staring at Martin intently. "You're still mad."

Pushing up on his elbows for support, Martin sighed, "Yes...but not at you. Mostly at the Watcher and a little bit at myself."

"For what?"

"'_One down, thirteen to go_,'" he quoted back. "This - this is my fault, Jon. I just wanted you to have some peace. You deserve it after everything that's happened. I didn't mean for it to put you in the crosshairs again."

"Twelve," Jon said.

"What?"

"I think...yeah, our encounter with Trevor and Daisy knocks another off," he said thoughtfully. Martin sat up fully, staring at Jon in disbelief.

"What does that mean? How do you...know?"

Jon smiled sadly, "Answered your own question."

"Well I don't have a psychic link to the Eye, so tell me what's going on!" Martin demanded. "How can I help you if I don't know what I've gotten you into?"

"Because you can't help me," Jon said dejectedly. Martin felt his body sag and go cold as the anger deflated. Jon saw it too and rushed forward, holding Martin's face with great care and warmth, making sure their eyes were locked. "Martin! Martin, no-no, stay with me! Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you smell. Tell me what you hear."

There was no compulsion behind it, just desperation. A lingering quirk of the Lonely they discovered early on: retreating into the fog as a defense mechanism against anxiety and shock. The first time it happened was on the train to Scotland. Martin had a particularly nasty nightmare and Jon watched as he nearly dissipated in his arms. He'd managed to pull him back using some old exercises from his university days when panic attacks were a fairly common occurrence. It did the trick and, thankfully, they'd only had to use the exercises one other time before now.

"_I hear...the rain_," Martin said. Jon frowned at the slight echo in his voice, but swallowed it down to focus on keeping Martin anchored. "_I smell...coffee and...wood_."

His voice was getting crisper, his body solidifying in Jon's grasp. "That's good, Martin. What do you feel?"

"_Sheets and_-and a blanket," he said, eyes welling up as he realized what was happening. "Hands. Warm hands."

"And what do you see?"

Martin smiled, looking directly at Jon, letting his welled up tears fall freely. "I see you, Jon."

"Okay," Jon whispered, more to himself than Martin. He pulled him into a tight embrace, letting Martin sink his face into his shoulder. "Okay. It's okay."

"It's not," Martin said petulantly, pulling away from the hug. "What good am I if I keep sending myself into the Lonely every time I feel useless and anxious? No wonder I can't help you!"

"That's not the reason," Jon said. He took Martin's hand, tugging him along as he got out of bed. "C'mon, Daisy's made breakfast and I don't want to explain these things more than a few times, if I can help it."

Leaving the bedroom, they were greeted by the smell of coffee, bacon, and eggs as Daisy set everything on the living room card table. She was dressed in a runner's outfit of leggings, tank top, hoodie, and trainers. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and Martin counted at least two sidearms at her waist and one knife on her ankle that he could see. Jon likely knew how many weapons she really had on her person. In short, she was ready to greet the day with a knife to someone's ribs. She smiled awkwardly when they came out in their rumpled pajamas, both looking like they'd gone through the ringer despite a mostly restful night's sleep.

"Thought I'd say thank you before we...talk," she said, nervously pointing to the small breakfast spread. 

"Right," Jon said, "let's get this over with."

***

Breakfast was quiet, but not entirely uncomfortable. Just three adult people trying to figure out what the hell they were doing. Three people unsure of themselves and scared out of their minds. Martin cleared the table when they were done. He grabbed one of the few apples they had left, quartering it the way Jon preferred. He'd knocked one right out of Martin's hand the first full day they'd spent in the cottage. Martin thought he was going to bite into a tasty, juicy piece of fruit, but Jon made sure to slap it from his fingers, raving about worms and teeth. From then on, Martin made sure to cut every apple and check if only for Jon's peace of mind.

Setting the apples on the table, Martin brought his chair closer to Jon and waited for one of them to talk. 

Eventually, Daisy broke the silence. "How long has it been?"

"Since I last saw you?" She nodded. "About...a month and a half. What do you remember?"

"Basira and I were getting ready to face Herbert, Montauk, and the...other thing. I didn't want her there," Daisy said, her eyes fiercely staring into her coffee to avoid looking at the other two. "I only knew one way to keep her safe. I listened to the blood. Is she...?"

"She's alive," Jon said firmly. There was no way of knowing for sure, not even with his connection to the Eye. With so much fear and terror, people were getting lost in the shuffle and Jon felt his concentration break every time he tried to focus on his friends. He just had to have faith in Basira and her ability to survive. Martin didn't say anything and Daisy nodded, a hopeful smile replacing her worry. "What happened afterwards? There was no trace of any of you when Martin and I got back."

"Don't really know. It's a lot of smells and sounds...blood...mostly blood," she said, her voice even and flat like she was entirely divorced from the memories. "I just kept runnin', chasing their scent no matter where it led me. I wouldn't have guessed I'd be back here."

"Then you've no idea where Julia or...Not-Sasha are?" Jon asked.

"No. Could be anywhere," she said. Letting out a heavy sigh of relief, she narrowed her eyes and gave them both a quick assessment. "So why are you two here? And why does everywhere else look like literal Hell on earth?"

Martin took Jon's hand. Daisy noted it, but said nothing. She waited while Jon tried to figure out the best way to tell her, but even he got tired of his own inept use of words and blurted the whole thing; a stream of consciousness that would've put James Joyce to shame. Daisy listened, never interrupting, but her body language gave away her concern and genuine fear. Even when she was fighting her Hunter instincts, Martin couldn't recall ever seeing Daisy look afraid. It was disconcerting. When Jon finished he looked sick, sweat and tears mixing with the bitter taste of adrenaline. The pale wash to his face was just as worrying. Martin brought him a glass of water, which he gulped down in seconds.

Daisy stood, pacing the room as she processed Jon's story. Hanging her hands on her neck, she muttered under her breath. The words increased in volume with each step until she punched her fist into the far wall by the bedroom shouting, "I'm going to kill him!"

"I really hope you're talking about Jonah," Martin said.

"Of course I am," she said. She pointed at Jon. "You did nothing wrong."

Jon smiled tiredly, shaking his head. "I wish...I wish I could believe that."

"Then believe it," she said. "Alright, that's it then? What's the plan? I assume we're heading back to London."

Martin and Jon looked at each other, words somehow failing them until Martin said, "That's not quite it."

The sympathy she'd held for Jon vanished into narrow-eyed suspicion. "What else is there?"

Martin sheepishly looked anywhere but at Daisy. He felt Jon take his hand again, giving him a measure of confidence. "I, uh...I made a deal with the Watcher."

Daisy, arms crossed over her chest, kept an air of calmly raging fire. "What deal?"

"He didn't know it was a deal when it happened," Jon said quickly.

"What deal?" she repeated.

"He wanted my freedom," Jon answered. "The Watcher agreed, but in order to do that...I have to encounter the Entities again. Earn my marks just like before."

"What...?" Martin whispered, kneeling by Jon's chair. "Jon...no. I...I'm...I'm - no..."

"That's why you can't help. Not entirely," he said, running his fingers through Martin's dark curls. "It has to be me or it doesn't count according to its rules."

"I - Jon, I--" Martin could feel himself fading, the knowledge too painful to endure. But then Jon pressed their foreheads together and placed his hands on Martin's shoulders, rubbing them softly. He gave Martin something else to focus on: the sensations of being touched, loved, and grounded.

"I still need you," Jon whispered. "Please don't go."

Martin nodded, whispering back, "I'm here. I'm right here."

Daisy sat on the couch, taking in the scene with just a hint of envy in her gaze. "How many have you faced?"

Jon wiped at his eyes and nose. "Two. Both of them last night. A creature from the Dark...and you."

"Do you think they're attached to a location or is it just you?"

"I - I think it's just me," Jon responded. "Though I haven't really thought about the lo--"

"Okay," she said, cutting him off, "then we should pack up everything and head out."

"And go where?" Martin asked.

"London. If you're going to get these marks again, then you might as well be at the epicenter of the whole bloody operation," she said. "Magnus already used you, so there's no reason to be here other than--"

Thunder rattled in the sky, louder and heavier than it was possible to comprehend. It was deafening, like they were inside the thunderclap churning in preparation for the next strike. Jon was almost certain he saw lightning streak past the window, horizontally, as if it had been fired at the cottage and missed. In the back of his mind, though, he Knew it for what it was: a warning shot. He was being called out and there was no running away from the enormity of its invitation. Jon stood and the world tilted, taking him with it. The dizziness and nausea hit him, a one-two punch of disorientation that sent him to his knees begging for stability.

"Jon? What's happening?" Martin asked, unsure of what to do and how to help.

Closing his eyes to ward off the queasiness, Jon said, "Outside. I need to get outside."

Together, Martin and Daisy lifted him to his feet, slinging his arms around each of their shoulders for support. Another peal of thunder reverberated through the cottage, slowing their progress. The short distance they traveled felt like days of back-breaking labor. When they finally reached the door, Daisy kicked the fragile wooden obstacle, practically knocking it off the hinges. Outside, waiting for them - for Jon - was a being both near and far depending on which angle you faced. It dwarfed them in size and appeared to be made up of bowed sparks of lightning shaped into the approximation of a human form. When it moved the landscape bent around it, warping the clouds, sky, and earth. Fighting the vertigo, Jon opened his eyes and saw mountains, cliffs, and a starless sky. Behind the being, or through it, was the Watcher, the Eye eerily fixed and magnified within the bubbled space where the head should be, a cycloptic giant motivated purely by hunger and destruction. He understood now why those poor villagers went mad. How could you fight something so great, so massive, and hope to win?

"What is that?" Daisy shouted over the swirling rush of wind.

"_Ex Altiora_," Jon breathed. Daisy didn't bother pretending to know what he said.

"I thought Gerard Keay destroyed it," Martin said.

"The book, yes. Ideas and imagination are harder to kill," Jon responded.

"How do we fight it?" she asked.

Jon shook his head rapidly, the enormity of the task filling him with dread. "I don't...I don't know!"

Dropping Jon's arm, Daisy pulled out one of her pistols and fired into the colossus. There was no way to tell if the bullets impacted. It kept walking forward, but was already meeting them at the threshold. It stood over them and around them, an infinitely stretching horizon condensed into its truest form. There was a pull in his chest as his body stayed still but the world moved around him and Jon found himself face to face with the Vast's greatest monstrosity. All at once he was witness to the void of space, the everlasting expanse of sky, and the deep abyss of the ocean. Their beauty left him breathless until he realized the titan was literally taking his breath as the wind whipped faster and faster around him. It lashed out cruelly, striking him across his face, his arms, his legs, leaving freezing tendrils that gripped at his heart and mind as he struggled for air. It was too big for him. He was just one man - one stupid man - and they were horrific gods walking the earth. What was freedom to a speck of dust in the history of the universe? Better to let the thing have its way and crush him beneath the understanding of his own pitifully small existence.

A familiar weight smashed into his side, knocking him out of the being's grasp. Martin was there, shaking hands checking his body for injury as he gulped in oxygen. "Breathe, Jon! Come on, love, breathe!"

"Yes - breathing - good - I'm good," Jon wheezed. Not his most eloquent recovery, but Martin gave him a relieved smile and that's what mattered. Daisy rushed over, attempting to help get Jon to his feet. The gargantuan paid no mind to its failed attempt at killing Jon. They were ants in its presence and it treated them as such. Casually, with barely any movement of what amounted to fingers, it unleashed a torrent of lightning that blasted through the cottage. Martin pulled Jon with him, falling to the left as Daisy dodged to the right. They hit the ground and Jon watched the bolts of electricity ravage their safe house, igniting the walls and ceiling in bright blue flame. Jon found himself swallowing the bitterness of adrenaline yet again as he watched the only place he'd found peace begin to shatter and burn.

All because of some damned creature from Jurgen Leitner's library.

And then he remembered three things. The first, that lightning could be grounded with the right conductor. The second, the Vast was diametrically opposed to the Buried. The third, there was another book that might actually be useful. Staggering to his feet, Jon fought against the vertigo and put himself between the cottage and the giant. He gave it a good, hard look, making sure the Watcher took it all in, and spread his arms wide, shouting, "Is that all you've got?!"

"Jon! What the hell are you doing?!" Martin shouted. His voice climbed several octaves as he made a move to grab Jon and pull him back. Daisy blocked his path, keeping him firmly by her side and out of the line of fire.

"He said it has to be him or it doesn't work," she reminded him.

"I can't just stand back and do nothing!" he shouted at her, trying to push against her smaller frame. Daisy didn't hesitate to slam his bulk firmly to the ground. She didn't need strength or size to best him.

"You will if you want him to see it through," she said. Looking back to Jon, Daisy gave a nod letting him know Martin was safe.

He returned the nod, shouting again, "Come on! Give it another go! You can't be out of lightning already? One pop off and that's it?!"

Jon wasn't sure if the taunting was an effective strategy, nor did he think the monster needed anymore reason to strike again. It was inevitable, but the angry posturing made Jon feel like he was at least contributing to the coming blow. It was going to hurt, but the connection was vital to reaching the heart of the creature. His eyes flickered to the finger-like tendrils as sparks of electricity gathered. He forced himself not to look at Daisy and Martin. He didn't want to question what was about to happen.

The Enormity barely twitched. The lightning slammed into Jon's chest, lighting his body up with energy and fire. He felt the overwhelming heat sear its way inside, traveling along every nerve-ending and synapse. His heart was beating so fast, pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break free of its ghastly cage. He screamed and he was almost certain he heard Martin helplessly echoing the sound in the distance. He only had seconds, but that was all he needed. He'd braced his feet, digging his toes into the dirt. He didn't fight the lightning, he let it move freely, traveling through his body and into the ground. He was the conductor, but the energy gave him the link he needed. Steeling his focus even as it attempted to slip away, he pulled the statement of Enrique MacMillian from his mind, smiling at the sound of Martin's voice on the tape. The book Enrique uncovered was still in the Institute, still in its sealed metal box in Artifact Storage. He read the word and let it soar through the brief attachment, pulsing through limitlessness and boundless space until it was the only thought to be had, the only action to be done.

"**_Dig_**," Jon said, broadcasting through the pain. "_**Dig**_!"

The lightning stopped. Jon fell to his knees, breathless and smelling of ozone, but he didn't stop repeating, "_**Dig**_!"

The being that had once inhabited _Ex Altiora_ slowly knelt along miles of countryside. It sank its tremendous hands into the earth and began to hollow out its own grave, digging deeper and deeper and deeper. All the while, Jon kept chanting, "_**Dig. Dig. Dig. Dig**_."

The earth gave out, crumbling in on itself from the lack of support. The further down the being dug, the more dirt and soil collapsed upon it until there was nothing but a low rumble of thunder and a scar across the land to mark its final resting place. The Watcher remained in the sky, but it seemed smaller after the encounter, diminished compared to what it once was. Jon had little time to engage with the thought before he was wrapped up in Martin's arms.

"You stupid, brilliant, stupid man!" Martin shouted.

"Only two stupids?" he mused tiredly. "Feels like I'm being cheated."

"Shut up," Martin said, his voice muffled in Jon's tattered and barely present flannel. "Just...shut up."

"I know. I know. I'm so--"

There were hands - claws, hooks - on his ankles that weren't there before. He only had a moment to show his confusion, only a second to look into Martin's beautiful, watery eyes. "Jon? What's...?"

"Mar--"

They pulled him into the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 4 - Page Turner  
MAG 34 - Anatomy Class  
MAG 88 - Dig  
MAG 158 - Panopticon


	5. The 4th Labor - Unearth the Buried

Martin's devastated eyes were the last thing he saw before the ground swallowed him whole. It pulled and pulled and pulled, taking him further and further away from the surface. He wasn't sure how long he'd been dragged or how far down he'd been taken, but when he stopped he felt his body surrounded by packed earth. He couldn't move. The weight of the world was pressing in on him and he felt spread out, contorted to ensure he had no means of making space or finding pockets of air. The coffin had given more leeway than his present predicament. There was no light; the dirt sealed his eyes shut, unable to open. Every breath brought in soil until there was no breath to give. His body was dying, but his mind was alive and racing. When he was in the coma he'd been dreaming, guided by the Eye through every story told to him under the veil of relief and peace of mind. The last step towards his decision to become The Archivist. He hadn't been conscious of the world surrounding his impossible corpse. Now, he was very aware of the world and it consisted only of malicious landscape.

What could he do? Where could he go? Was this punishment from the Buried for sending another element of the Vast into their midst? Revenge for escaping the coffin? Had Choke been set on grabbing him from the start because he was vulnerable and it saw an opportunity? Or was it the Eye trying to contain him, keep him from succeeding and winning his freedom?

Like the coffin, he felt his connection to the Eye weakened. There was too much interference between the layers of sediment and rock for the Watcher to pinpoint his position with its gaze. He was without breath, but his mind sighed in relief for the first time in a month. Perhaps it was better this way. There was no fear, no terror, strong enough to reach him here. If he was being kept alive by the will of another entity, then he'd eventually fade away when the Eye decided he wasn't worth the effort to find. He could die here, a fitting end to the man who destroyed the world. No grave, no marker, just gone and forgotten. Maybe a tree would grow around him, something tall and sturdy with thick roots that would intertwine with his bones and take nutrients from his decaying flesh. People would take shelter beneath its branches and find shade in the heat of summer. Maybe the tree would even bear fruit, sweet and fragrant to be enjoyed when the picking was right. If that was his fate, then he'd be satisfied with the outcome. For once in his life, he wanted to be the origin of something good.

It would be so easy to sink into the dirt, give in and accept the weighted blanket already lulling him to sleep.

Here he could rest.

Here he could finally find peace.

But there was no real rest, no real peace without Martin.

He'd made a promise and while he'd taken the time to entertain an eternity encased in dirt, his one priority, above all other things, was the man he'd been ripped away from. The man who wouldn't stop until he'd been found. There were two things Jon could count on when it came to Martin Blackwood: his stubborn will and unwavering devotion. He could only hope to match it by making an effort to get back to him as quickly as possible. He had no idea where the Buried had dragged him, but the first step in his, admittedly, short plan was to get out. His options of how to initiate said plan were depressingly limited. This wasn't like the coffin. There were no anchors to guide him back to the relative safety of the archives, no tape recorders playing at maximum volume like a siren's song. There was only Martin, Daisy, and the Eye somewhere up above.

But maybe that was all he needed.

The Buried was as physical as it was philosophical. There were plenty of statements about suffocation due to poverty or wealth and plenty more about stress leading to panic attacks and crushing social anxiety. The real culprit of the entity was the earth itself. From the earth we came and to the earth we'd return, but in between were decades of fear in connection to that moment of reunion. It was easy enough to stalk humanity through the ubiquitousness of dirt. How could one truly escape the foundation of the world? So, like most things humans fear, they attempted to conquer it with civilization and ignored the outliers warning against the monsters molded from sand and mud and clay. There were also the monstrous humans who sought refuge in the dirt, longing for their final resting place and the eventual return of their human brethren into the bosom of their ancient mother. The Buried's feeding grounds were plentiful. There was no one capable of stopping it from doing as it pleased, sustaining itself without worry or fear of detection.

So Jon made it very clear how close it was to the precipice of exposure. His mind was still a flurry of thoughts and, once he'd worked out his angle, he made sure to broadcast exactly how screwed the Buried was if it intended to keep him. Martin and Daisy would certainly make their attempts to dig him out regardless of how near or far he was to them at the moment. Martin would make the most valiant effort because that was Martin. Yes, they'd eventually come to the conclusion that he was too far out of their reach, but then there was the Eye to contend with. Jon's role as the Eye's avatar and gatekeeper to the Entities' newfound surge in power might've been fulfilled, but the Eye was still a fickle and selfish god. It wouldn't be happy with the severed connection and it certainly wouldn't be happy that its avatar was lost beneath the dirt - pulled away without permission and with flagrant disrespect.

To remedy the situation, the Eye would send its acolytes to find him. They would bring shovels and trowels, rakes and spades, and in the absence of those instruments they'd use their hands. They would dig and dig and dig until their bones cracked and their hands bled and still they would continue to dig and dig and dig. There would be no rest, no relief from labor. Many would die in the course of the unrelenting quest, falling into the very holes they'd produced in search of the Watcher's archives. But there would be ten more to take their place and ten more holes to be made. There would literally be no stone unturned, no parcel of land or patch of dirt unblemished in desperation to complete their task. The Buried would forever be under attack, always under the Ceaseless Watcher's gaze. A planet of exposed nerves with no escape in sight until what was taken was returned.

Jon felt his tomb tremble and waited.

***

There was a split second where Martin thought he'd dreamed Jon vanishing beneath the dirt. It seemed impossible that a grown man could be in his arms, warm and real, and then gone without a trace. He didn't get to react, no moment to grab hold and stop whatever forces were pulling him away. It wasn't fair that he was denied his chance to save Jon, so he did the only thing he could do in opposition to the Buried. He started digging.

Five minutes.

"Martin," Daisy said, her voice faint over the rush of adrenaline driving his hands into the soil.

Ten minutes.

"Martin," she said, the force of her tone louder in his ears.

Twenty minutes.

"Martin, stop," she said. He could feel her kneeling by his side. It was the only thing he could feel apart from the numbness in his fingers.

Thirty minutes.

"MARTIN!" she shouted as she grabbed his arms, holding them in place at his sides. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the tears he hadn't realized were falling into the hole as he dug. He was breathing in short, shaking breaths, his heart beating like he'd run a marathon. The pause made it achingly clear how much his hands hurt. Daisy released her grip, letting him lift them for inspection, balking at the blood and dirt coating his palms. He felt her hands on his head, attempting to make soothing motions to comfort him. "You have to stop. Jon wouldn't want you to do this."

"I can't - I can't leave him, Daisy," he stuttered. "He's - he's all alone and I-I - what if he's d-dead? Wh-what if - if he _isn't_ dead?! The Eye m-might keep him alive for the fun of it! I need - I need to find him. I need to find him."

"You need to take a breath and calm down," she said, but he could see the same panic in her eyes betraying the steady tone of her voice. The cottage was nothing but the charred remains of its basic structure and foundation. Jon was gone and they were stuck together in a world of monsters emboldened to prey upon humanity more than usual. What could they do? Where could they go? Martin shook his head wildly, unwilling to take her words under advisement.

"I'm not - not leaving him," he said adamantly. "Do what you want, but - but I'm staying here."

"You two are cut from the same cloth," she muttered. "Dying out here isn't going to save him, Martin."

"It's my fault this happened! Mine!" he cried. The force of his anguish was enough to make Daisy take a step back. "He followed me into the Lonely, Daisy. It was the last mark he needed and I made that possible. If he'd just...left me, the world wouldn't - it wouldn't be like this. And I...I made the deal. He's in the ground because of me!"

Her hands were on his shoulders, gripping tightly. She stared at him with those piercing blue eyes that still held a measure of the Hunt within. "This world was never ours to understand. None of us could've known. They were always a step ahead, but that doesn't mean we can't catch up. But we can only do that if we keep our heads and stay together."

He nodded, understanding her meaning. "But what about...what do we do about Jon?"

Daisy sighed, afraid to answer. When the ground began to tremble, she felt a sense of relief that there was something else to focus on. It was a low rumble, barely enough to qualify as an earthquake, but they watched as twenty feet away a small hill rose up. The rumbling stopped and the dirt fell away in large clumps to reveal a a very familiar body.

"JON!" Martin shouted. Running over, surprising even Daisy with his speed, he jostled Jon into his arms, checking him over. His eyes were closed, dried tear streaks running down his encrusted face. He smelled like petrichor with a lingering hint of ozone from his encounter with the Vast. He wasn't breathing. Panicked, Martin put his ear to Jon's chest, listening for a heart beat that wasn't there. "Daisy, he's not - he's not breathing!"

"Put him on his side," she said, quickly running over. Martin did as he was told, rolling Jon on his side so the archivist was facing Daisy. "Knock his back as hard as you can."

"What?"

"Knock his back!" she ordered. Martin reacted instantly, smacking Jon's back with a loud TWACK! Dirt expelled from Jon's mouth as the archivist heaved dust and pebbles, coughing out a sludge of sediment from deep within his lungs. The coughing turned to gasping that slowly turned to a steady rhythm of deep breaths as his body calmed. Martin placed his ear over Jon's chest again, hearing the the most beautiful sound in the world with each thump of life.

"Jon? Jon, open your eyes, love," Martin said, trying to hold back his unease. Jon did as he was told, eyes breaking through the heavy crust that denied him light. There was a flash of green and black and Martin caught the briefest look from the Watcher - frustration and worry? - before Jon's true eyes were staring back at him.

"Hello...Martin," he said, his voice labored and rough. He reached up, gently cupping Martin's cheek. Martin pressed into the touch, placing his hand over Jon's, forgetting about the blood and grime until Jon's eyes widened in shock. "Your...your hands...what...?"

"Idiot was trying to dig you out," Daisy said, though her voice lacked any bite.

Jon smiled. "I knew...you would. Told the...Buried...as much."

Martin helped him to a sitting position, letting Jon lean against him for support. "How did you get out?"

"I - uh - I let it know there was no stopping you from finding me," he said. Daisy rolled her eyes.

Martin gave a half-hearted smile. "I admire your faith in me, Jon, but...what did you actually do?"

There was another string of wheezing coughs that shook Jon's body before he answered, "Told 'em the Eye wouldn't stop looking for me."

"Sounds about right," Martin commented.

"Feel like you can stand?" Daisy asked. She held out her hand, which Jon took and used both of their strength to get to his feet. Martin refused to let go and he was grateful for it. "Okay, let's see what we can salvage."

The cottage was pretty much gone, but the fire hadn't destroyed everything. One of the chairs had remarkably survived and Jon happily sat among the ruins while Martin and Daisy searched. Luckily, Martin had stored their luggage and clothing below the bedroom floorboards after seeing how well it worked for Daisy. At the very least, they had something to wear beyond their pajamas. Jon was surprised he even had enough on to qualify as modestly dressed after the lightning and burial. In his line of sight, he saw the claw from the beast in the Dark poking out of a pile of debris by what was left of the fireplace. He picked it up, giving his hands something to hold on to instead of fidgeting nervously. Half an hour later, Daisy was doing a quick inventory of her remaining arsenal, using Martin as her personal spreadsheet, when Jon turned and noticed something that hadn't been there before.

"Martin! Daisy!" he called. They rushed out to meet him and stopped cold when they saw the yellow door where the entrance used to be. Martin stood by Jon's side, helping him to his feet again as the archivist hobbled to the door. He raised his fist as if to knock, but hesitated. He hadn't seen Helen since he tried to compel her for information on the maze beneath the Institute. She'd put her blade-like fingers to his throat - the favored spot for threats against the Archivist - and denied him the help he'd needed to find Martin and Peter Lukas. Why would her door show up now?

"Jon?" Martin said, his face a mask of concern and dread. Jon wasn't really sure what to do, but Martin gave him an encouraging nod, which gave him just enough confidence to bring his fist down and knock.

The door opened and a being of impossible angles and curves stood before them.

"Hello, Archivist," she said, her smile curving all the way up her face and over her eyes. "I haven't seen you in some time. How are you?"

"Helen," Jon said curtly. "Why are you here?"

"I thought you might be in need of a door," she answered. She looked past him and waved enthusiastically as more fingers sprouted from her hand. "Hello, Martin. Hello, Daisy."

Martin gave a feeble wave back. Daisy said nothing, but kept her right hand hovering over the nearest gun.

"Why now?" Jon asked. "Why not a month ago or when we first arrived?"

There was a fondness in her eyes that made Jon uncomfortable. For all of Helen's insistence that she liked him - at least the part of her that was once Helen Richardson - the part of her that was still the Distortion took that sincerity and twisted it into something alien and unnerving.

"I've been rather busy as of late and only now had the time to fetch you," she said. "Melanie's been very patient with me, so we'd best be off. I'd hate to disappoint her."

"Melanie?! She's alright? And Georgie?" Jon asked, elation mixing with apprehension.

"Fine as one can be in these times," she answered. "Though she's taking things much better than I expected. Some people are better suited to the Apocalypse than others."

"I suppose so," Jon responded, relieved by the knowledge that Georgie was safe as well.

"Ready to depart, then?" Helen asked. Martin moved to get the luggage, but Daisy stopped him and gave him not so subtle cues to keep Jon in his sight while she brought what remained of their things to the door. Jon shoved the Dark claw into the only pocket he had left and took Martin's hand. He didn't want to think about the cottage anymore. He didn't want to think about the loss of the first place that felt like home in years. All he could do was move forward or collapse in a heap. Martin squeezed his hand tightly, dirt and blood still stinging them both, but the pain was minor compared to what they'd experienced the last two days. Daisy stayed at the rear, eyes alert and aware that Helen could turn at any moment.

"Yeah," Jon said, walking towards the Distortion, "let's go."

"How did you enjoy Scotland?" Helen asked conversationally as they walked through.

"There were some very good cows..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 120 - Eye Contact  
MAG 132 - Entombed  
MAG 157 - Rotten Core  
MAG 159 - The Last


	6. The 5th Labor - Unmask the Stranger

The journey through the Spiral's domain was a mostly silent affair. Helen attempted idle chit-chat, but Jon was too tired to make nice and hold on to some semblance of friendship with his fellow avatar. Between silences, Jon continued to cough up remnants of dirt. There was a noticeable wheeze to his breathing as well. Martin kept hold of his hand, for support and safety. They both knew how easy it was to get lost when it came to mazes. Daisy kept a hawkish watch on Helen, eyes focused on a being that stretched and curled simultaneously. In one blink her body divided itself, in another she was unfathomably tall and equally as wide. Every now and then Helen would turn back and smile with razor-sharp teeth, aware of her surveillance and tickled by the attention. Daisy gave her nothing in response.

They hadn't been walking very long - nearly an hour - before Helen stopped in front of their exit. "Here we are!"

The door opened and Jon found himself face-to-face with a slightly worried, but scowling Georgie Barker. He didn't care that the last time he'd seen her she'd all but physically thrown him out of her flat. Jon rushed forward and grabbed her up in a tight hug. 

"God, Georgie, I'm so glad you're alright!" he exclaimed. He hadn't realized how much tension he'd been holding on to thinking about whether or not his friends were alive until it dropped away as he held her. She was stiff in his arms and barely returned any of the embrace. She pulled away, turning from their little group.

"Melanie! Melanie, Helen's brought them!" she called. Georgie deliberately walked towards the kitchen, avoiding the gloomy look on Jon's face as he watched her put as much distance between them as possible. Emerging from the bedroom, sporting a stylish pair of sunglasses and a relieved smile, was Melanie King. She walked towards them without incident, her knowledge of the flat's layout obviously familiar, and gave Jon the hug that he'd tried to coax out of Georgie. He returned it, just as happy that she was alive and real in his arms.

"Good job staying alive," she whispered, her voice catching with a tiny sob.

"You too," he returned. When the hug ended, she gave a confused look, rubbing her thumb and index finger together for textural clarity. She smelled the air and looked to Jon.

"You're filthy and you smell like burning hair," she said.

"Yeah...I got hit by lightning and...buried alive...again," he said sheepishly. They heard the distinct sound of shattering ceramic and Georgie cursing. Even the Admiral scampered out of the bedroom to see what happened. When he noticed Jon, the cat sauntered over, rubbing against his leg and whining for attention. Jon obliged him, giving a quick pat to the head and a scritch behind the ears. 

"Okay," Melanie said, unable to hide how weird his casual brushes with death were conveyed. "Who else have you got?"

"Martin and Daisy," he said. Martin came forward, giving Melanie a side hug that she easily returned. Daisy passed by, giving her a quick squeeze on the shoulder before finding the most advantageous position in the flat's open spaces. She still made sure to keep Helen in her sight. 

"He found you," Melanie said to Martin. "Good."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you...when you needed...I'm sorry I wasn't here," he said.

"Nope. None of that," Melanie scolded. "You're all here - now - and you're alive and that's - that's all we can hope for right now. Thank you, Helen."

"Of course," Helen said, her arms snaking around the door. "Give a knock if you need help with transportation. My door is always open, so to speak."

She and the door melted into the background until there was no sign of either. Jon shook his head at the absurdness of the entire ordeal. Melanie grabbed him and Martin, pushing them towards the kitchen.

"Alright, time to catch up. I think some tea is in order," she said. The lightness in her voice was miles away from the last time Jon had seen her. She'd gotten out from under the Eye's influence...only for Jon to put her back under it on a global scale. He gently pulled out of her grasp, glad she couldn't see his face.

"Actually, I'd like to clean up, if you don't mind? Wouldn't want to get dirt all over the furniture," he said, attempting to match her tone and doing a poor job of it. He didn't dare look at Martin. He'd know instantly what Jon was thinking and feeling. He didn't want pity, he just wanted to wash away the latest near-death experience before the next one came calling. 

"Yeah," Melanie said. She'd taken up the mantle of host since Georgie refused to leave the corner of the kitchen where she's planted herself. "Toilet's at the back. Towels in the--"

"The linen closet by the door. Yes, thank you, Melanie. I remember," he said. He glanced up, caught Georgie's glare, and looked away before sulking off to shower and change his clothes.

***

The scalding spray of water wasn't enough to rid him of his pernicious thoughts, but it did the trick of banishing the dirt from his body. He relished the smell of lavender soap and scrubbed the coconut shampoo into his hair vigorously. No more earth and ozone, no more ichor and blood. No more Scotland and cows, no more crackling fires and woolen blankets. All of it gone, carried away down the drain. He checked his shoulder, grimacing at the black-lined claw marks that had merged with a prominent Lichtenberg figure from the lightning strike. He wondered if it would go away in the next twenty-four hours or if it was affixed to him permanently. More scars, more marks, and plenty of pain to show for it.

He dressed quickly, letting his hair dry naturally. Martin stepped in afterwards, eagerly awaiting his own chance to clean up. Daisy did a quick wash at the kitchen sink using a cloth to wipe down her arms and scrub her face. There was an edge to her eyes that kept Jon from fully relaxing. There was also Georgie, but focusing on Daisy's monster-radar was an easier problem to contend with. When Martin finally returned, smelling of the same combination of lavender and coconut, they sat at the dining table and awkwardly waited for someone else to start talking.

"So, Melanie, how're you...getting on?" Martin asked. She knew what he was referring to and Martin was grateful he didn't have to explain himself.

"Well...fine, actually. It's taken some getting used to, but we've got a routine and that helps," she said. "It's mostly thinking about what I want to do, what I can do, and where those things meet, ya know?"

"Sure. I sent Jon a packet to give to you that should've helped with insurance, but I was thinking..." Martin responded enthusiastically. Jon smiled fondly as their chatter progressed. When he looked towards the kitchen, he could see Georgie fuming even with her back turned. The set of her shoulders as she leaned against the counter, her long, measured breaths as she tried to calm herself, and the low-level muttering were tell-tale signs that she was going to explode at any moment.

"...I find entertaining myself to be the hardest part. I didn't watch a lot of television before, but it was something to distract myself when needed. Now...we have some books on reading braille I'd like to try. Georgie had me on What the Ghost as a guest. Maybe I'll do more of that. Talk about my experiences so other people can avoid my mistakes," Melanie said.

"That's fantastic, Melanie! What was the topic for your guest appearance? I'll download it--" Martin said.

"What did you do, Jon?" Georgie said. There was the explosion. It wasn't loud or concussive, but the accusation in her voice was enough to floor Jon like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Georgie..." Melanie warned.

"No. No, we're not going to sit here and let you shower and drink tea while there are monsters - real monsters - outside and not get an explanation," Georgie said, finally leaving her perch from the kitchen. She sat near Melanie so she could look directly at Jon. Her eyes were fire and ice, flickering back and forth as if she couldn't decide the most effective way to extract answers. "What did you do, Jon?"

"He didn't do any--" Martin started.

"No, Martin, it's alright," he said, trying to keep calm. "I owe them an explanation."

He told them. He told them everything. Like Daisy, they were silent through the recap. There was the occasional gasp from Melanie, but Georgie remained steady in her demeanor. The glare hadn't vanished, but she didn't add any commentary while Jon recounted the last month and a half and the events that led to the world falling to pieces. Martin held his hand the entire time and when he was done, he leaned in closer, giving Jon the physical support he needed. When he finally felt brave enough to look at her, he saw tears welling up in Georgie's eyes and he dared to hope.

"I told you not to go back to the archives," Georgie said. Jon immediately felt his heart sink. "But you did. All the red flags were there and you still went back. You could've stopped this before it even started. Instead...you've dragged us into Hell with you."

Martin was on his feet so quickly even Daisy reacted as if she might have to restrain someone. "Stop it. You don't have the first clue what you're talking about!"

"There is a giant eye staring down at us! There are shadows creeping along the walls capable of slashing people! There are people being thrown into and falling out of the sky!"

"You think monsters were any less real before this happened? You encountered zombies and you can't feel fear, Georgie!" Martin said. She looked taken aback at his knowledge of her background. Then she remembered Jon's tape recorders and her jaw clenched along with her fists.

"Yes, but I never purposefully put myself in the position to encounter them again," she said. "I moved on. I didn't let that experience define me and I certainly didn't try to endanger the people I care about for the sake of curiosity."

"Georgie, that's--"

"You can't see! You blinded yourself to escape that vile institute and it was for nothing!" Georgie said, taking Melanie's hand in hers. "Your friend, Tim, died for nothing."

"Don't you dare--" Daisy started.

"You know what? Melanie wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for Jon," Martin said. "If he hadn't cut the bullet out of her leg, she'd have gone in with the Slaughter and _eventually_ would've killed someone - if not from the institute, then an innocent bystander. Daisy would still be a prisoner of the Buried. And I...I would've disappeared into the Lonely. That's three people, so far, he's saved. How many have you, Georgie?"

"Okay, I think that's enough from everyone," Melanie said. She continued to talk, but Jon stopped hearing the words. He wasn't sure how to react to anything that was happening. He felt numb to it all, another cycle of blame with him at the center running in place. He shouldn't have hoped so fervently. Even at his most guarded, when the facade of ignorance and disbelief were his only weapons, he still wanted someone to believe in him. For the longest time, that person was Georgie. After their breakup, she was still the one person he'd trusted to have his back because he knew, deep down, that she cared. He'd tried to protect her from the archives, from what it was turning him into, but he'd failed spectacularly. She had every right to see him for what he was - a monster.

When he looked up in an attempt to speak he stopped as his mind signaled an immediate threat. He looked to the door and Knew what was coming. What he didn't understand was why it had taken so long for the feeling to manifest. He should've Known sooner, but there was no time to process the thought further before...

"Daisy! The door!" Jon shouted just as two fists punched through and the being on the other side ripped it off its hinges. It was still wearing the face and body of a woman they'd once believed to be Sasha James, but there was a distinct wrongness to the changeling that made it difficult to focus on for more than a few seconds. Maybe it was trying to reestablish the old deception or maybe it wanted observers to question what their eyes were seeing.

It didn't matter because what was very obvious was the murderous glint in its eyes as it looked to the Archivist and said in a voice that was everyone's and no one's, "_Hello, Jon! _"

"Shit!" Martin shouted.

"Everybody get back!" Daisy shouted, practically bounding over the table to put her body between Not-Sasha and everyone else. Unfortunately, not everyone had the advantage of Daisy's instincts and reactions. Georgie pulled Melanie from her chair, but their movements were too sudden and uncoordinated and they fell to the floor in their rush to flee. Forced to concentrate of keeping the civilians from getting killed, Daisy tried to help them to their feet only to feel the full force of Not-Sasha's large, claw-like hands raking across her stomach. 

"Daisy!" Jon shouted. 

"Run, Jon!" she shouted back, her voice tight with pain.

"_Yes, Jon...RUN!_" Not-Sasha said, its mouth watering viciously. He felt Martin's hand on his back attempting to push him in the opposite direction of the changeling, but Jon found himself unable to move. No, not unable...afraid to move. If he moved, then something worse would happen. He didn't know what, but the only thing that made any sense was to stay perfectly still and let the monster take him. But he knew those thoughts were wrong. His sense of self-preservation was skewed, to be sure, but even he knew the benefits of getting out of the way when it was warranted. The trepidation coursing through his limbs felt familiar, like his abilities were deliberately working against him. It was the same feeling he'd had when he'd selected Eric Delano's statement among Gertrude's tapes. The Eye didn't want him to move. It wanted him in the line of fire.

Fortunately, Jon had a personal tackler in the way of Martin Blackwood who made good use of his bulk to drive Jon out of Not-Sasha's path at the last second. He was rewarded with a sharp pain in his side as he caught the momentum of her slashing claws. There was no scream, just a grunt of pain and watery eyes.

"Martin!" Jon cried. "I - I don't...I couldn't..."

"Explanation later. Fleeing now," Martin said, looking towards the open doorway Not-Sasha had moved away from in her attempt to skewer Jon. They stood as if to get their head start out of the flat, but Jon froze again when he saw Daisy bleeding on the floor, trying to stand up and protect Georgie who was protecting Melanie. Martin was bleeding as well and Jon felt something break at the sight of the people he loved frightened and bloody because of him.

He looked at the thing that had replaced Sasha. It wasn't even wearing her skin, it had just erased her like she never existed. But she did. Jon heard her voice on the surviving tape from Jane Prentiss's attack. She'd been a real person, someone who he'd shared a cup of tea with and discussed the pronunciation of calliope ad nauseam during lunch breaks in the canteen. There were memories and the changeling had contaminated them. The Stranger was linked to more deaths in his circle than he'd realized until now. Jon's natural life, Tim's entirety, and Sasha's very existence were all victims of this entity. They deserved better. They deserved to be remembered as the people they were, not as a perversion crafted by fear and paranoia. 

He wanted to remember Sasha.

"You were the last to see her alive," Jon said. He didn't have to fight the Eye's desire to stay in place. He had no intention of running. Martin stood with him, holding his bleeding side, but staying just behind in case they needed to make a break for it yet again. 

"Jon...," Martin said, cautiously. 

"_What was that, Jon? I couldn't hear you over the sound of your friends screaming_," Not-Sasha taunted. 

"You've tainted every memory I have of her, but you were also the reason she died. You saw her," he said. He felt the world slow down around him as he gathered his will and forced it on the changeling. The creature tried to shirk away, it's eyes widening as it felt Jon's power in full.

"_No! Stop! What are you doing!?_" Not-Sasha shouted.

"**_SHOW ME! _**" Jon commanded. His voice echoed within the pocket of delayed time. Like Michael Crew had done to him, like he'd done to the surviving half of Breekon and Hope, Jon made certain that the changeling was trapped in his power with no options available except to do as he wanted. Not-Sasha tried to fight it, pushing back with its own will that might have bested Jon when he'd first come into his abilities. But not this time. No, he was the one in power and changeling would submit.

***

_He was looking through its eyes, watching as it stalked Sasha from behind, following her through the tunnels. She was scared, trying to escape the worms and frightened beyond comprehension for her life and the lives of everyone in the archives. She stumbled, catching herself on the wall and scraping her arm in the process. The changeling smelled blood and its hunger ignited. It was no longer hiding its presence. Sasha was alone and there was no one coming for her. It could do as it pleased and take everything it needed to appease the Stranger. _

_Sasha stopped. She knew something was behind her, something awful and twisted. She spoke into the darkness, "Hello? Is someone - is someone there?"_

_She turned and the changeling chuckled to itself. Too easy._

_"I see you!" she said. "I see you!_ "

***

The changeling lunged and Jon stopped the memory from playing out. He didn't need to see Sasha's end, but now he had the full picture of her: long, black hair, brown eyes that held equal amounts warmth and wit, glasses, tawny skin, clothes that accentuated and flattered her curves. He took the image and let it wash over his memories, overriding what the changeling had altered with the person who belonged in those moments of friendship and turmoil. He let the true face of Sasha James settle in his mind and he allowed himself some tears as he mourned the loss of his friend.

And then he found something he hadn't expected. There was a reflection in Sasha's glasses, light coming from the torch she'd dropped. In that brief moment before the changeling attacked, an image of a creature with too long limbs, grey-green skin, bulging eyes, a flattened nose, jagged teeth, and pointed flaps for ears stared back at him. Sasha wasn't just trying to gin up bravado, she'd actually laid eyes on the changeling's real form. And now, thanks to her, so did Jon.

"_**I see you! **_" Jon said as the pocket of will and power dropped away. Time caught up with them and all eyes were now on the grotesque form of the changeling. It could no longer hide beneath the visage of another person. It was out in the open with nowhere to run. 

"_DIE!!!! _" the changeling shouted, rushing towards Jon. It barely made it past the first step before Daisy emptied her guns into its skull. Black ichor like the Dark beast splattered across the floor and walls as the creature fell at Jon's feet. He felt the viscous liquid hit his newly washed skin, but he didn't care. He shuddered with relief as the Eye's demand to stay still ebbed along with the changeling's life.

"What the fuck is that?!" Georgie shouted.

"A changeling," Martin said as he slowly moved to Jon's side. "It killed our friend Sasha and replaced the memory of her with it's own altered image."

"What did you do to it?" Daisy asked as she slumped into a chair. She inspected the bloody streaks on her shirt like an inconvenience, prodding her own wounds as a form of triage. 

"The Stranger's taken so much from us...Tim and Sasha," he started. "I didn't want my memories of her to be muddied with that thing. So I found her again and she showed me the real creature."

"I don't understand," Martin said. Jon took his hand.

"I'll show you," he said, gently. Martin nodded his consent. Jon closed his eyes and let the image of Sasha flow through him and into Martin. He gasped at the familiar intrusion upon his mind, but Jon wasn't Elias and Martin let himself relax and let Jon in. Wherever the changeling appeared, it's corruption slipped away, replaced by the real Sasha James. Jon returned her to her rightful place in his memories, images that he hadn't dared recall because the pain of her death and disappearance was too much to bear. He could finally mourn her properly and a quiet sob escaped his lips from the bittersweet onslaught of joy and sorrow. 

"Jon...I...thank you," Martin said, reverently. "I...ahhh!" 

"Martin! Christ, come on, sit down," Jon said hurriedly. Martin gingerly found his way to another chair as Jon fussed. He lifted Martin's shirt, hissing at the raw, angry claw marks. Luckily, they hadn't gone in too deep. "I don't think stitches are called for, but we need to get these cleaned and bandaged. Daisy?"

"'Bout the same as Martin," she said. "Wasn't after me so it held back. Need a new shirt, though."

Jon chuckled, "I don't think--"

"She's right," Georgie said. "It wasn't here for any of us...except you, Jon."

"Georgie, don't," Melanie said, tenderly grasping her girlfriend's arm. Georgie pulled away, stomped across the floor, and slapped Jon in the face. Martin shouted and Daisy gave a low growl, but Jon stood there in stunned silence. Georgie wasn't a violent person by nature. She'd always been kind and empathetic even when Jon was at his worst. This wasn't the Georgie he knew as a young man. This wasn't the woman he'd loved even if it was for such a short time. She was as much a stranger as the changeling corpse at his feet. Georgie hadn't slapped him, she'd reached in and ripped out his heart. 

"You're here for a few hours and we get attacked by a monster!" she shouted, tears in her eyes. "I've been keeping us safe for weeks and this happens the minute you show up, Jon!"

"It's not his fault!" Martin shouted.

"It's never his fault, is it, Martin?" she returned. "You'll just keep making excuses until you realize you've been falling off the edge with him the whole time!"

"Where the hell do you get off--?!"

"Everybody shut up!" Melanie shouted, her chest heaving with pent up anger. Even with the bullet gone, the Slaughter was still within her to some degree. "No more of this! Martin and Daisy need to be patched up. I'm going to get the first aid kit. Georgie, you're going to help me play doctor in the less fun way. And Jon...I assume you've got some kind of gore on you, so go clean yourself up."

No one questioned the orders they were given. Martin sat down in a huff, wincing at the pain in his side. He shared a brief look with Daisy, signaling their shared wounds and a burgeoning sense of solidarity with one another. Georgie followed Melanie to get whatever medical supplies could be cobbled together. Jon made his way to the bathroom, keeping his eyes low, desperately trying to not to look at anyone. When he made it to the toilet, he shut the door and let the wall support him as he slid down.

His knees felt weak and the shaking threatened to upset his balance if he stood any longer. He didn't care about washing up, he just had to get away from everyone. He needed to process the last few days and he couldn't do that in front of the group - definitely not in front of Martin. They couldn't understand what he was going through, not even Daisy. He'd destroyed it all: the world, their safety, their lives. All because he didn't leave the archives when he had the chance. Because he couldn't give up and die properly. Georgie was right to hate him. He'd done nothing but bring monsters into her life the second he asked to stay at her flat. She'd tried to council him, but he'd been stubborn and let his curiosity, his need for answers, damn them all. There was no forgiveness for that level of disaster, and even if there were he wouldn't take it.

He shivered, feeling the temperature suddenly drop. Rubbing his arms, he looked up at the ceiling and noticed a clutch of spiders skittering along the walls. There was purpose in their movement, but the longer he watched them, the less he cared. Spiders were another warning; the Web was involved, though in what capacity was anybody's guess. Or it would be if he bothered to tell the others. It didn't seem important anymore. Whatever was coming meant to come for him and maybe they'd succeed this time and put him out of his misery. He was a liability regardless. He'd made enough enemies among the other avatars to keep him on edge the rest of whatever unnatural life he had left. That was no life for Martin. If Jon slipped away, then they wouldn't be in danger anymore. Martin would be safe, they'd all be safe, from him.

Another shiver passed through. He felt heavy as his body slackened against the wall. The room took on a haze that threatened to cloud his vision. The spiders skittered past him on the floor, but he barely registered the movement.

The fog settled quietly around him, a blanket of serenity blocking out the rest of the world with the calming sound of a distant shore.

Jon did nothing to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 24 - Strange Music  
MAG 39 - Infestation  
MAG 78 - Distant Cousin  
MAG 79 - Hide and Seek  
MAG 91 - The Coming Storm  
MAG 94 - Dead Woman Walking  
MAG 119 - Stranger and Stranger  
MAG 125 - Civilian Casualties  
MAG 128 - Heavy Goods  
MAG 154 - Bloody Mary  
MAG 155 - Cost of Living  
MAG 158 - Rotten Core


	7. The 6th Labor - Embrace the Lonely

Their makeshift kitchen hospital was a quiet place where tensions bubbled just below the surface. With Jon cleaning up and Melanie unable to see, Georgie became the _de facto_ doctor tending to patients who regarded her with obvious contempt. She started with Daisy, following Melanie's instructions on how to inspect, clean, and bandage the jagged marks across the former detective's stomach. It was amazing to watch Melanie guide Georgie step by step. They'd all done plenty of patchwork jobs on each other since moderate wounding was unofficially part of the job description for the archives. In the six months Jon had been in a coma, they'd all had to provide medical care on the spot after the unrelenting assault on the institute by avatars and agents of other entities. Melanie, in particular, showed great skill in stitching up wounds she'd inadvertently caused under the Slaughter's influence. Whether that was natural acumen or some perk of her brief alliance with the Slaughter was anybody's guess. At the moment, it was an invaluable asset.

Daisy maintained a low level growl while Georgie worked. The desired effect was wasted on a woman who couldn't feel fear, but Daisy kept up the posturing nonetheless. Georgie, for the most part, stayed focused on her task. She worked quickly, but thoroughly, and it wasn't long before she moved over to Martin while Daisy swallowed a handful of painkillers and replaced her shirt. The scowl on Daisy's face never softened. If anything, it deepened when Martin hissed the first time Georgie touched a wound with antiseptic.

"Sorry," Georgie said, though the tone didn't quite match the word.

"It's fine," Martin said, adopting a similar approach.

"No, it isn't," Georgie sighed. Whatever anger she'd harnessed to confront Jon was gone. Dabbing at the gashes, she looked up at Martin, watching his face as he tried not to let on how much pain he was in. "You'll definitely have scars."

"Compared to J--"

"There's no comparison," Georgie interrupted, another surge of anger creeping in. "Suffering doesn't prove anything and scars aren't signs of bravery. He let himself be mutilated and I...I couldn't get him to stop."

Martin couldn't fight his natural empathy. "None of us could. I think that's what Magnus was counting on."

"We were so focused on ourselves," Melanie said, "or on saving the world. There was a bigger picture and we missed it entirely because we couldn't conceive of how massive it actually was. And Jon..."

"He was at the center and didn't realize it," Daisy added. "Fear. Guilt. Anger. Confusion. We treated him like he was the cause of our problems, like he was responsible, and he took it to heart."

"You two are the only ones who ever showed him some compassion," Melanie said, nodding towards the doctor and patient. Georgie avoided eye contact with Martin, but she could feel his disapproving gaze on her as she pressed the final bandage over his skin. She'd made her emotional support of Jon conditional whereas Martin's was an infinite well. Their approaches were different, neither an ideal means of handling trauma, but it was clear to Georgie that something had been lost in translation between her and Jon.

After their breakup, they'd been friendly but not all that close. Coming to her out of the blue, in need of sanctuary, she'd been happy enough to provide a bed, food, and a shoulder to cry on, but Jon required more than she could supply. She'd let her experience with the supernatural guide her in one direction while Jon had gone in the opposite. He wanted to understand the unknown, pursuing the answers at any cost. She'd kept her distance, examining the circumstances from the safety of her podcast. She hadn't been afraid, obviously, and choosing not to engage with what couldn't be defined presented the most logically safe strategy. But if fear was no longer the driving factor behind some of her decisions, then she had to wonder if her lack of fear had unintended consequences. Had she rejected helping Jon to protect herself or did she simply lack the ability to care about his well being? Would she ever apply the same strategy to Melanie? Had she already applied it without realizing?

"You're good to go," she said quietly, moving away from Martin as she wrestled with her thoughts. He pulled his shirt down, but watched her with obvious concern.

"Do you have any news on Basira?" Daisy asked.

"According to Helen, the Institute's been on lockdown since the whole Apocalypse thing started," Melanie said. "Basira hasn't tried to make contact, but she's never been the chatty sort either."

"She would've checked in," Daisy said, her face looking crestfallen to Martin and Georgie. "You were friends. She would've checked in."

Martin took in a few calming breaths, closing his eyes to his environment as he processed the very real possibility that Basira was dead. They'd been at odds about his involvement with Peter Lukas, but she'd been an absolute rock to him and Jon when they needed to get out of London. Even their phone conversations were pleasant during check-ins from Scotland. If she was gone, then it was one more friend lost to the machinations of Jonah Magnus. One more life that could have been spared if they'd only been paying closer attention. He was so tired of mourning.

Leaning back in his chair, he looked up at the ceiling and noticed a small assortment of spiders circling almost exactly above his head in a manner that could only be described as urgent. Alerted to his observation, the spiders began to skitter across the ceiling, practically single file, towards the back of the flat.

"Do you feel a draft?" Melanie asked as she suddenly rubbed her arms against the burst of cold that swept across her arms, goosebumps popping up in its wake.

Martin stood, watching the path of the spiders on the ceiling. He heard the others talking, but the fear that gripped him canceled out the surrounding noise as the pieces put themselves together.

"Jon's taking a while," Georgie said, trying not to sound too concerned. "He's been in there for 20 minutes."

"Monster blood. Harder to scrub out than you'd think," Daisy responded.

There was a haze building around the bathroom. He wanted to believe it was steam from the shower, that Jon was just annoyed enough at the changeling's intrusion to start cleaning up all over again. But there was no mistaking it. He felt the truth of the matter deep in his bones as the fog rolled and coiled around the bathroom, taunting him. The flat wasn't large, but it felt like miles to get to the loo. He ignored the concerned shouts from Daisy and Melanie as he ran past them, launching himself over the changeling's corpse and the sofa to save every precious second needed.

Throwing the door open, he let the thickening fog swirl around him as it spilled into the rest of the flat. There was no point questioning the origin of the fog. It was as much a manifestation of The Lonely's desired claim on an individual as it was a naturally occurring cloud of moisture. The two went hand in hand. The cold and quiet greeted him like an old friend, but Martin shook it off as much as he could, scanning the mist until he found Jon propped up against the wall, arms and legs limp and lifeless. His head hung forward, face obscured by newly dampened hair. He didn't look entirely solid and the longer Martin watched the less of him there seemed to be.

"No. No-no-no! Jon! Jon!!" Martin cried. Kneeling by his side, Martin reached out, praying that there was enough of Jon to touch. Thankfully, he could feel the outline of Jon's shoulder beneath his fingers. The cold was expected, but still off-putting on Jon's body that ran at an absurdly high temperature even by normal standards.

"Jon? Jon, it's me. It's Martin," he said, gently. Slowly, and with shaking hands, he pushed away the wet hair in Jon's face, revealing open eyes filled with the same spiraling vapor that surrounded them. Martin tried his best to fight back the tears, but it was a battle he couldn't win. He quickly gathered Jon's slack body into his arms, cringing at how little resistance he received. The lack of expression was even more haunting. Jon was incapable of schooling his face no matter what the occasion. Whether it was narrow-eyed condescension at a piece of writing or a full blush of tenderness over a cup of tea, the archivist was an open book. He even managed to look like he was judging you in his sleep based on the furrowed brow and tight line of his mouth. To see absolutely nothing on his face except blank, clouded eyes was enough to send a spike of fear down Martin's spine.

"Please, Jon...please don't go," he pleaded.

There was a loud gasp that startled him from behind. Daisy and Georgie stood in the doorway, the fog having thinned out enough for relative ease of visibility. They rushed over, flanking the two men. Melanie remained just outside the door. It was already cramped enough with four adults in the small bathroom.

"What's wrong with him?" Daisy asked, eyes examining Jon for further injury.

"It's the Lonely," Martin said. "It's trying to take him." He didn't want to say the Lonely may have succeeded, but Daisy read him well enough to understand.

"Can you stop it?" Georgie asked.

"I-I don't know," Martin said, his voice heightened with panic. "He - he's the one who got me out last time. He knew the way."

"Could you...?" Daisy asked.

Martin shook his head. "If I followed...I don't think either of us would come back. It's too easy for me to get lost there."

Georgie, a grim line settling on her face, slapped Jon as hard as she could.

"WAKE UP, JON!" she shouted above the protests of the others. "You don't get to run away from this!"

Martin felt a shift from Jon's body just before he saw his eyes slowly blink. The cloudiness remained, but it was something to work with.

"Jon? Jon, can you hear me? Please answer me, love," he said, stroking Jon's face as lovingly and insistently as possible. 

"_**Martin...**_" Jon breathed, the familiar echo of the Lonely loud and clear in his voice. Martin couldn't decipher what he was crying over: that Jon had answered or that he was firmly in the Lonely's clutches. Maybe both. He was still fading, but Martin had to believe the condition had been slowed down by his decision to respond.

"Yes. Yes, Jon, I'm right here," Martin said. "I need you to come back, okay? Can you follow me home?"

"_**You were right**_," Jon said, the question asked of him slipping by unnoticed. "_**It is gentler here**_."

"No, no, I wasn't right, Jon. That's why you had to bring me back, remember?" Martin said, desperately. "You need to come back to me."

"_**Why? **_" he asked, passively.

"B-because I-I want you back. B-because I-I love you," Martin stuttered, thrown by the simple question and its indifferent tone.

"_**Why? **_" Jon echoed. "**_You're in danger...because of me_**."

"Jon..." Martin started.

"**_It's better if I stay_**," Jon said, his voice diminishing within the echo. Martin was starting to see his arm through Jon's torso. "**_I can't hurt anyone here_**."

"Stop it, Jon," Daisy scolded.

"**_Hello, Daisy_**," he responded automatically. Any sign of affection, the softness that had slowly crept into his voice over the last four years, was gone. The Lonely has set Jon back to a long abandoned default setting that had been rooted out with each mark obtained from the Entities.

"Hi. Now get your head out of your ass and back to the real world."

"**_It's very real here_**," Jon said, his voice wavering. "**_It's very real_**."

"No it's not," Georgie protested. "You can't hurt anyone there, but you can't help anyone here."

"_**Georgie...**_" he said, the tone so full of sorrow and fondness that Georgie burst into tears. "**_You don't need my help. You don't need me_**."

"That's absolutely untrue, you bastard!" Georgie shouted. 

"I don't think swearing at him is helping, love," Melanie said from the doorway.

"**_Melanie_**," Jon said, stiffly. 

"Jon," she responded as she moved fully into the room. She hesitated, but there was clearly something she wanted to say. "I..."

"_**What can I do for you, Ms. King**_?" he asked.

It was like hearing a ghost of the skeptical academic persona Jon put on during his first year as Head Archivist. It was the voice of a stuffy prick Melanie was very familiar with and knew how to handle. The contrast in mood from the man she'd left behind in the archives was heartbreaking. Jon was ready to slip away and yet he still sounded defensive, bracing himself for a fight because he didn't believe there were any alternatives. They hadn't been kind to him after he'd woken up. They'd treated him like a monster because they needed someone to blame. He never stopped them because he already believed it of himself and so, for them, a monster he became.

No wonder the Lonely was holding on so tightly.

"I...I'm sorry, Jon," Melanie answered.

"**_For what? _**"

"For blaming you. For turning you into a scapegoat. You didn't deserve that," she said. She knelt by Georgie, placing her hand on his arm. "Thank you, though...for saving me."

"And me," Daisy said, her hand on his other arm.

"And me," Martin said, tightening his hold on Jon's body. 

Cautiously, Georgie placed her hand on Jon's cheek, turning his face towards her. She winced at the chill on his skin, but it served to keep her focused. "I'm sorry, Jon. I'm sorry I wasn't the person you needed me to be. I'm sorry I let you go without realizing what was actually happening at the archives. I'm - I wish we'd both handled things better, but that doesn't mean I don't need you or that I don't care."

"**_Georgie..._**" Jon said and to Martin's ears it sounded less hollow.

"It was easier to push you away," she continued. "It was easier to dismiss your pain to protect myself."

"_**I...I tried**...to protect you_," Jon said. A little less echo. Martin looked down and saw Jon's body recovering some solidity. "_I tried to keep you away from the archives_."

"You did," Georgie said, "but I also pushed my way in and ran when I didn't like what I saw. But I think...I think you also wanted me to know. You wanted someone else to share the burden."

"_Yes..._" he said, voice tinged with regret.

"It's alright, Jon. It's alright to want that. You're only human--"

"_Human..._" Jon said, testing the word out like he didn't understand its meaning. Despite the lack of emotions, Jon looked lost, fighting against his own mind and the Lonely's influence. Martin felt the cold pressing in stronger than before, the fog thickening. Jon's voice shook as he spoke, static and white noise merging with the echo. "_Not_ **_human...a monster_**."

"NO! JON, NO!" Martin shouted.

He could feel Jon's body slipping from his grasp. The Lonely was powerful, perhaps the most powerful of all the Entities. It was so easy to tear a person down using their own fears and ugly thoughts against them. Jon had accumulated a lifetime's worth of psychological and physical trauma in the last three years, not all of them his own. He shouldered the burden because he believed it was his to bear and his alone. It was the most sickeningly brilliant aspect of Magnus's plan. Every mark came with an avalanche of pain, guilt, and isolation. Jon had been a prickly, closed-off man before he started working at the Institute, let alone the archives, but once the responsibilities of his job became dire, he shut himself away, keeping everyone at a distance. He'd tried to protect his staff, his friends, his...family and those misguided attempts created the perfect bubble of solitude for Magnus to manipulate.

But Jon wasn't alone and if Martin had to spend the rest of his days telling him that, then it was a noble cause he'd gladly champion. Martin had made his claim and he wasn't about to let the Lonely take what was rightfully his. He pulled Jon closer, wrapping him in warmth and what he hoped was an anchoring touch. He ignored the blank stare and leaned in close so Jon could hear him without question.

"I love you, Jon. I really do, but if you think I won't follow you into the Lonely because I'm better off without you, then you don't know me at all. You can't protect me from anything in there and I'm perfectly content with dissolving right along side you," Martin said. He thought he heard a sudden intake of breath, the kind Jon made when he realized he hadn't considered all possible solutions to a problem. "We're in this together, you and me. You told me I wasn't alone. Well, neither are you. So, I'm letting you pick where we end up. In the fog? Or in Georgie's flat?"

He waited.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Then...He felt the fog receding, the bite of ice and melancholy thawing as the temperature warmed. In his arms was something heavy enough to take up space, a corporeal object of his affections. In his arms was Jonathan Sims. He wasn't all the way back. His body was limp but present. His face remained locked in apathetic repose. His eyes were still clouded over, staring into a swirling haze of doubt and scorn. It was enough, though, and Martin knew he could guide Jon the rest of the way.

"Good," he said, stroking Jon's face with encouragement. "Now, tell me, Jon, what do you hear?"

A quiet sigh of contentment escaped as he whispered, "**_Martin..._**"

Jon's arms and legs twitched as he tried to take control of his limbs.

"What do you smell?"

"**_Lavender...coconut and_**_...antiseptic? _"

A smile crept into the corner of Jon's mouth, but his brow furrowed in concentration as he fought harder to regain mastery over his body. Martin touched his thumb to Jon's lips, gliding along the smooth skin as he leaned in closer. Jon froze momentarily, but the sensation was familiar, welcoming, and he quickly melted beneath Martin's delicate caress.

"What do you feel?" Martin asked.

The kiss was soft and slow, a light nudge of skin and sensation. Like their first kiss, cuddled in front of a glowing hearth in Scotland, it was the promise of more to come. Jon responded in kind, though Martin felt the barest hint of desire for something stronger. He felt Jon's hands reach out, moving of their own accord to cup Martin's face with gentle reverence. Had they been alone, Jon's touch would have been enough to convince him their lighthearted display was inadequate for their actual needs and wants. At the moment there was company to consider. When they finally broke apart, Martin could see Jon's hazel eyes beginning to break through the clouded veil.

"_Your lips...your skin._ Warmth," Jon said. Martin pressed their foreheads together, a quiet chuckle catching in his throat.

"Tell me what you see, Jon," he said. Their eyes met and Martin watched the last of the fog disappear. All that was left was his Jon and a tearful smile of gratitude.

"I see you, Martin," he said. Jon threw himself fully against him, hugging fiercely as he whispered "I'm sorry" over and over again while Martin responded with "It's okay" just as adamantly.

"I didn't - I didn't mean to - to," Jon stammered.

"It's alright, love," Martin said, tucking Jon's hair back behind his ears. "It's alright."

"I was lost..." Jon said, realization hitting him swiftly. Georgie took his hand, squeezing tightly before he could spiral again.

"But you found your way back," she said. He nodded, squeezing her hand just as tightly.

"Come on," Melanie said, getting to her feet as she wiped at her eyes. "There's still a changeling corpse we have to dispose of."

"Mood killer," Martin said, playfully.

They picked themselves up, stumbling into the living room. The day wasn't half over and they were exhausted. Daisy indicated for Georgie to help her with the changeling while Melanie supervised. Jon sank into the sofa, waiting for Martin to occupy the space beside him. Careful of the wound, Jon leaned into Martin, letting the pull of sleep drag him down with the knowledge he was safe under the watchful eyes of his family and the man he loved.

He'd tell them about the spiders when he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAG Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 159 - The Last


	8. The 7th Labor - Silence the Slaughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Descriptions of violence, blood, and gore.

They had a week of blissful quiet. Jon slept through the first two days, his body and mind exhausted and in need of rest. Martin tried not to disturb him, but he made sure to get him up to eat and drink before letting him collapse again on the sofa into a deep sleep. During those two days, they managed to somewhat fix the door and dispose of the changeling's body. They didn't have to worry about being caught out by the police or hiding the monster from prying eyes because the entire population was doing the same. London authorities were trying their best to keep order, but it was impossible to deny the existence of darker forces more powerful than the imagination could conceive. The only balm anyone could offer as chaos rippled across the globe was the universal shared experience of the Apocalypse. As unifiers went, it wasn't a hard sell when a giant eye was observing you at all times of the day and night. A few weeks in and panel shows were already debating the philosophical implications of the known Entities as well as their symbolic presence. Zealots of all religions were in the streets either gloating or trying out last minute recruitment pitches. Politicians promised to "vanquish the forces of evil" like they were goddamned superheroes in an action movie. The innocent continued to suffer.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Martin was just grateful for the downtime and the chance to watch over Jon while he recovered. He knew something was coming, it was inevitable, but being able to hold Jon close on the fold-out bed and recite terrible poetry for him like a lullaby was a gift he refused to squander. If Jon was experiencing his dreamscape journey through the nightmare zoo, then he hid it well. Fully awake on the third day, he looked rested and relaxed in a way that was very uniquely Jon. The sickly grey pallor was gone from his skin, letting the natural golden tones of brown return. The bags under his eyes were nearly gone, giving him the appearance of someone less haunted by the world and more of a university student pulling an all-nighter vibe. His demeanor changed very little: prickly, but amiable, and grumbling to himself over minor inconveniences.

They all kept watch on the spiders. Now taking up residence in the flat, they busily crafted their webs but made no move to do anything other than weave - their brief stint as a signal flare for Jon and Martin notwithstanding. Mostly, they kept to the corners and windows, though Jon had the macabre thought that the spiders were making slow progress on encasing the flat so as to trap them and devour them later. When Georgie suggested stamping them out or spraying them with whatever bottle of poison she had under the sink, Jon respectfully rejected the idea. The Web had its plans. Whether the Apocalypse played into or was a detriment remained to be seen, but Jon was content to let the spiders stay. That way they could be ready for whenever Annabelle Cane and her lot decided to act.

There was a comfortable domesticity in the air that was both welcome and excruciatingly stressful. Jon paced, a lot, the anticipation of the next fight a spectre on his shoulders. Martin managed to calm him before he got too frenzied, but he wasn't wrong to believe the clock was counting down on him. They had a long discussion about Jon freezing in place during the changeling's attack. Though the basic parameters were vaguely known regarding Martin's deal with the Watcher, it wasn't a hard assumption to make that the Entity was interfering for reasons unknown. Jon spent a great deal of his time puzzling over every possible angle his patron could take going forward, but his theories were just that, theories. Like all things dealing with the Fears, there was a dearth of answers that left him feeling at least three steps behind.

So, Martin did his best to bribe Jon with cups of tea and biscuits, keeping his mind distracted with inconsequential things divorced from the the Watcher or the other Entities. The others joined in as well. They read whatever was available, though Jon found himself at odds with a series of romance novels Georgie and Martin lauded. Towards the end of the week, however, he was also enraptured by the works of Harrison Campbell. Daisy offered to show Martin how to properly use the small arsenal of weapons she carried, which led to Georgie and Jon sitting in on the tutorials when they realized it was a skill worth having for the time being. They occasionally played cards and pulled from the stack of board games tucked away in the flat, but mostly they talked. For all the time they'd spent working at the archives there was a lot they didn't know about each other. Martin and Georgie dominated many of the conversations, but Melanie was keen to share memories of her grandfather and, eventually, Daisy and Jon let some personal tidbits slip without too much cajoling.

Martin found it was easier to coax stories out of Jon before they went to sleep for the night. Whispers in the darkness between kisses were more appealing to Jon and Martin wasn't about to deny him his little pleasures. Jon returned the indulgence by reading or listening to Martin's poems, making out like teenagers, and letting Martin paint his nails. The jaded, embittered archivist of three years ago would have scoffed at getting his nails shellacked. The present archivist, however, gladly presented his hands for inspection, choosing a new color every day for Martin to adorn his fingers. It was a soothing ritual, time just for them where Jon could enjoy watching Martin's face scrunch up in concentration and his eyes brighten when he finished the artistic endeavor.

When the week ended, the dreams began.

***

_He could smell the coppery stench of blood. It was heavy in the air. He was in the flat - in the kitchen. He was breathing heavily, heart racing, pulse pounding in his ears. He turned and gasped. _

_Georgie was on the floor, a deep, gaping wound in her stomach. Her eyes were wide open, face frozen in a final look of confusion and betrayal. She was dead. His veins thrummed in time with his heart.  
_

_Not two feet away, Melanie was propped up in a chair at the dining table. Her throat was slashed and there was a wound in her chest, right over her heart. Dead as well. The beat picked up, heavy like thunder in his bones._

_Daisy was a mess of blood and gore. Her throat was ripped out, her chest split open. Her heart was gone. He tried to shake the thrilling, undulating sound of his own body, but it was impossible to ignore. _

_Laid out on the sofa was Martin. His shirt was soaked in blood, a wound to his chest the culprit. Another one over his heart. His body twitched in its last moments of life. He looked up and with his last breath, gasped, "Jon...why...?"_

_He held the knife in his hand. It was slick and red and in that moment all he wanted to do was plunge it into another living pile of flesh and bones. He'd have to settle for the cooling bodies available. He waited, letting the drums hammer out their savage beat until it was all he could hear. Until it was all he wanted to hear._

_Standing over Martin's still form, he sank the knife in, again and again, keeping time with the horrendous music._

_***_

"MARTIN!" Jon shouted as he pitched himself forward. Too real. It was too real and Jon had to check. He had to know if he'd killed them. He had to know if he'd killed Martin.

"Jon?! Jon, what's wrong? What's...Jon, what're you doing?!" Martin asked as Jon frantically pushed his shirt up, pressing his hands and fingers into Martin's chest. There was a sheen of sweat across his face and a wild look in his eyes. Martin gripped his wrists, stopping his manic probing. Light flooded the flat after Daisy sprang from her air mattress to the nearest switch. Georgie and Melanie hurried out of their room, their movements slow but alert after hearing the intensity of Jon's cry.

"Everyone alright?" Daisy asked.

"Clearly not everyone," Melanie said.

Martin paid them no mind. He kept his focus on Jon who was doing the same to him. He was shaking, sweating, and the nervous energy was setting off all of Martin's mental alarms. He'd had plenty of experience dealing with Jon's nightmares while they were in Scotland and it was easy to fall back into that routine. As calmly as possible, he framed Jon's face with his hands, stroking his cheeks at a slow, soothing pace. "Hey - hey, it's alright. It's alright, Jon. You're okay. We're all okay."

"I dreamed - I dreamed I-I k-killed you," Jon choked out. "I-I killed a-all of - of you...There was blood - so much blood. A-all - all over the - the flat. So much blood..."

"Hey - Jon-Jon, look at me. Look at me, love," Martin said sternly when he saw Jon's eyes begin to lose focus. "It was just a dream. We're all here. We're all alive."

"It-it was s-so - so real," Jon stuttered. Tears spilled down his cheeks. "I s-stabbed you in-in the heart."

Martin immediately brought Jon's hand up to his chest, letting it rest over his heart. "It's right there, Jon. Beating and everything."

Jon's hand lingered, pressing harder as he felt Martin's heart beat against his fingers. Combined with Martin's gentle, rhythmic touches, It was the counterbeat he needed to calm himself. After several minutes of quiet breathing, the shaking stopped and he sank into Martin's arms. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

"All good, Martin?" Georgie asked.

"Yeah," Martin said, rubbing Jon's back in the same pattern of slow, soothing circles. "You can go on back to bed."

"Sleep well, Jon," Georgie whispered, guiding Melanie back into the bedroom who grumbled the same sentiment. Daisy switched off the lights and returned to the relative comfort of her air mattress. Keeping hold of Jon, Martin leaned them both back on the fold-out.

"Wanna try sleeping again or would you rather stay up a while longer?" Martin asked. Jon wordlessly wrapped his arms around Martin's torso, ear pressed into his chest to hear the lively thumping of his heart.

"Recite a poem for me?" Jon asked sleepily.

Martin blushed but nervously looked over at the air mattress's occupant. "Um...you okay with that, Daisy?"

With a heavy sigh, Daisy turned on her side so her back was facing them. "Go on..."

"Um...yeah, right, uh...how did it go...uh...

_No coward soul is mine  
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere  
I see Heaven's glories shine  
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear  
_

_O God within my breast  
Almighty ever-present Deity  
Life, that in me hast rest,  
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee_

_Vain are the thousand creeds  
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,  
Worthless as withered weeds  
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main_

_To waken doubt in one  
Holding so fast by thy infinity,  
So surely anchored on  
The steadfast rock of Immortality._

_With wide-embracing love  
Thy spirit animates eternal years  
Pervades and broods above,  
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears_

_Though earth and moon were gone  
And suns and universes ceased to be  
And Thou were left alone  
Every Existence would exist in thee_

_There is not room for Death  
Nor atom that his might could render void  
Since thou art Being and Breath  
And what thou art may never be destroyed."_

"Emily Brontë," Jon said warmly, his speech slurring. "Thassa good one."

"You liked it?" Martin asked, eyes fluttering sleepily at Jon's approval.

"Mmm...you made the drums go away..."

Before Martin could further examine what Jon said, they were both asleep. There were no more dreams that night.

The following day, Jon spent most of it looking irritable and tired. The day went by as normally as a day could under the constant scrutiny of the Watcher, but Martin noticed the occasional wince in Jon's face, his hands moving to cover his ears as he mumbled about someone playing their music too loud. From the window, Daisy observed a small gathering of people who hadn't been in the neighborhood before. They were just there, focused in a way that led her to believe they were acting in coordination. Then that focus vanished and the crowd looked around in confusion before dispersing with deep scowls marring their faces. That night, the same dream vaulted Jon forward with a blood-curdling scream and Martin's tried and true calming techniques took longer before they were effective. Jon was more insistent on the reality of the dream and he continually commented on the sound of drums. Poetry did nothing in the way of soothing him back to sleep. If anything, he looked more irritated by the recitation of one of the few Byron poems Martin could recall verbatim.

The next day was worse. Jon started shouting for the neighbors to stop beating their drums so loud. Georgie tried to reassure him that no one was playing any drums nearby, but Jon just ignored her efforts and started pounding on the walls for the noise to end. Melanie, thankfully, found some ear plugs and threatened to shove them into Jon's ears, personally, if he didn't snatch them from her immediately. He complied with the request and they seemed to do the trick. His shoulders relaxed and he spent the rest of the day listening to a muffled world like it was the most beautiful sonata ever composed. Daisy watched the the crowd gathering again, but there were more of them including some Sectioned officers she recognized. They all looked mean and hungry. Like the day before, the crowd lost hold of their focus and dispersed, but Daisy knew that feral gleam in their eyes and she made sure the others knew what was happening. Jon barely slept that night. He tossed and turned, mumbling tiredly about drums once again. When he finally managed to settle, there was still a restless twitch in his body that kept Martin wide awake with worry. He woke up screaming again and didn't sleep for the rest of the night. 

The spiders appeared to be weaving faster.

The relentless sound of drums followed Jon into the next day and the next. He couldn't sleep, could barely eat, and any efforts on the part of the others to help him spiked a surge of anger through his mind that was utterly foreign and bewildering. Most worrying, he couldn't think. Concentrating on anything for more than a few minutes prompted an increase of pounding rhythm that rippled through his body. It was the migraine that wouldn't end and no amount of darkness or quiet would alleviate the pain or mute the noise.

By day five he was inconsolable, curled up on the sofa, trying to snuff out the incessant, pulsing vibrations filling his ears. He couldn't hear Martin's quiet whispers. He couldn't feel the soft touches to his face. There was only the drums and he wanted nothing more than for them to stop. Each thump to the beat brought pain and with the pain came anger.

"Please...please make it stop," Jon pleaded. His voice sounded so small, so fragile. It broke Martin's heart to hear him suffering.

"I'm right here, Jon," he said. "Please...please hear me!"

"Yes, so the rest of us can stop hearing you," Melanie said, swatting at her ear.

"Melanie!" Georgie exclaimed.

"You okay, Mel?" Daisy asked.

"I told you, it's Melanie!"

"Hey - hey - that's enough," Georgie said.

Why wouldn't it stop? Why wasn't anyone helping him? Why were they just standing there, talking, while he was in pain? Didn't they care? Did they want him to suffer? How could they let him suffer? Didn't they love him? Didn't Martin love him? Why wouldn't Martin help him?

"Martin...Martin...make it stop...make it stop..."

"I-I don't know how. You have to tell me, Jon! Tell me how to stop it," Martin begged. 

"The crowd's back," Daisy said, looking out the window. "They're - they're armed. Knives...clubs...bats. They're headed this way."

"Good. Maybe they'll finally put us out of our misery! Or at least his," Melanie said, pointing in Jon's direction.

"What is wrong with you?" Georgie said, appalled at the words coming from her partner. 

"The Slaughter," Daisy said, calmly. "They mix with the Hunt sometimes. I can feel it at the edge of my thoughts. Jon's hearing drums, yeah?"

"Melanie, are you hearing drums?" Georgie asked. 

"What, you think because I'm blind now that I'm bloody Daredevil?!" she shouted. "I don't hear any drums. It's - it's a pipe, a flute, maybe? If they'd just...shut up maybe I could think for a second."

"Jon...Jon, it's the Slaughter!" Martin said, practically screaming into his ears. "There's - there's people coming. I don't know how to stop this!"

There had to be a way to stop it, right? Were they even trying? They weren't. They weren't trying at all. Just content to let him writhe in agony. Another dead monster for them to dispose of in the streets. He was going to die while they stood over his scar-riddled corpse and celebrated his demise.

_There's only one way_, said a pacifying voice behind the drums. _There's only one way to stop the drums._

"How?" Jon asked. 

"How what?" Martin responded.

_When blood is spilt, the Slaughter reigns. No more Fear. No more pain. When blood is spilt, the Slaughter reigns. No more Fear, no more pain._

"When blood is spilt, the Slaughter reigns...No more Fear...No more pain," Jon said. His voice was eerily placid compared to the pained cries for help he'd expressed not a few seconds before. Martin watched his body go still. A forbidding halo of calm hung over Jon that spiked the threat level in Martin's head to its highest possible setting. Whatever Jon was fighting against had taken hold, entrancing him in this subdued state.

"Jon! Jon, listen to me!" Martin shouted. "You - you have to fight this!"

"I couldn't agree more!" Melanie growled as she shoved into Georgie, knocking her to the floor. Keeping her focus on the mob of Slaughter-influenced people on their way to the flat, Daisy managed to move out of the way before Melanie smashed her head into the wall. She pushed her back, forcing her towards Georgie once she'd regained her footing. Georgie immediately wrapped her arms around Melanie, restraining her across the chest. Melanie tried to buck her legs out, but Georgie was prepared to counter. When Melanie tried to jump and kick her legs out in front, Georgie used the momentum to bring them both to the floor. She quickly wrapped her legs around Melanie, keeping all of her limbs secured.

Using the confusion of the fight between the three women, Jon jumped to his feet, staggering quickly towards the kitchen before Martin could react. His eyes were half-lidded, darkened by the Slaughter's trance. He grabbed the nearest knife, jabbing it out in front as he swayed dangerously back and forth. Five days of sleep deprivation and malnutrition had already taken their toll on his body. The surge of sudden movement and the athleticism to race for the weapon left him looking drained and precariously close to passing out. 

"Put the knife down, Jon!" Daisy ordered.

"When blood is spilt, the Slaughter reigns...No more Fear...No more pain," Jon said in response. 

They didn't hear the mob enter the building. They didn't hear them as they made their way up the stairs and on the lifts. But they heard them when the door was smashed in and ten people of varying heights and weights, carrying an alarming amount of weapons, rushed inside the flat. Daisy used the moment to her advantage, rushing Jon and knocking him against the countertop. The knife immediately slipped from his hands, but he didn't register the loss of the weapon. He continued chanting the sinister poem, fighting against Daisy's hold. In his weakened state he wasn't much of a threat. The mob, however...very much a credible threat.

Two men, one with a lead pipe, the other holding a cricket bat, charged her first. Throwing Jon to the floor, Daisy pushed down on the pipe as the man lunged and let the other one swing his bat. She ducked at the last second, letting him clock his companion in the head. She quickly shoved the heel of her hand into the bat-wielder's nose, slamming his head into the counter to take him out of the equation. Another two came up behind her, a woman poised to stab her with a butterfly knife and another man brandishing a katana. She rolled her eyes. It was the Apocalypse, so of course someone had a katana.

"Melanie!" Georgie shouted. A blur in the shape of Melanie King slammed into the man with the katana. She practically threw him up against the wall, breaking the arm holding the blade for good measure. Daisy dispatched the woman with the butterfly knife with two quick punches to the stomach and head. That was only four down and there was likely an endless supply making their way to their doorstep.

"Georgie, go get the extra semi-automatics from my bag. I'll cover you," she said, pulling out the two guns that were normally attached to her hips.

"I..." Georgie started. She looked like she was about to protest, but one quick glance at Melanie wielding the bloody katana at more encroaching Slaughter zombies was enough to swallow her misgivings. She ran to the linen closet, dodging past a woman holding an ice skate who was tackled by Martin before she could finish her swing.

"Cover your ears if you can! This will get loud!" Daisy shouted. She started firing on the Slaughter's followers. Her intent wasn't to kill, but she wasn't going to take it easy on them either. Melanie was already stabbing with reckless abandon. As long as she could drive them back, keep them out of the flat, they might stand a chance.

Martin heard the ringing in his ears from the guns. It droned in the background, but it was worth the inconvenience when he saw Jon looking around at the state of the flat like he'd just woken up from a dream. "Jon?! Jon, can you hear me?"

"Martin...? Where - ahhhhhh!" he shouted, covering his ears. "Stop it! Stop it, please! When - when blood...When blood is-is...When blood..."

The damn drums. The Slaughter was trying to regain its hold. He could see Jon fighting, but the window was closing on how long he'd last until that awful stanza spewed from his lips on repeat. He'd broken out of it, the deciding factor being the gun shots.

He had a plan.

"Daisy! Fire the gun near Jon's ears!" Martin shouted.

"WHAT?!" Daisy exclaimed as she took out a man's kneecap.

"I know what to do about Jon! Or, at least, I think I do!" he attempted to explain. "The gunshots disrupted whatever the Slaughter's--"

"Don't explain it to me!" Daisy admonished.

"I've got it!" Georgie shouted. She ran up to Jon. He was curled up, holding his head tightly as he fought the Slaughter's call. "Sorry, Jon."

The gun went off and Jon heard nothing but sweet, muffled silence.

***

When his hearing returned, it was only half formed. There was a strange high-pitched ringing in his left ear. On the other side, he heard what sounded like Martin. It sounded like Martin reciting a poem.

"..._I met my foe in an empty dell,  
his face in the sun was naked hell.  
I thought, 'One silent, bloody blow,  
No priest would curse, no crowd would know.'_

_Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed,  
Watched for the frame of that poor field;  
And in that flower and suddenly  
Earth opened it's one eye on me._"

"G.K. Chesterton?" Jon mumbled.

"Jon? You're awake?" Martin said. Jon realized that he was laying on something soft. Opening his eyes, he found himself on Georgie and Melanie's bed. Martin knelt by his side, holding Jon's hand for dear life, but gave him a dubious stare. "Do you - do you hear any drums?"

He took a moment to gain his bearings and listen to the world around them. He could hear Daisy shouting, guns firing, the sounds of bodies dropping to the floor, but there were no drums. Just the tinnitus in his left ear and Martin's voice in the right.

"No...they're gone," Jon said. Martin's shoulders sank in relief, his body relaxing with the good news. He leaned in, hugging Jon tightly.

"I - I didn't know if it would work," Martin said. "I had to try, though. And you're back. You're back."

"What - what did you do?" Jon asked.

"When Daisy fired her guns, it knocked you out of the Slaughter's trance. Momentarily," he explained. "And - and you said the Brontë poem made the drums go away, so I figured, maybe, I could counteract that dreadful Entity poetry with any poems I could remember - Sonnets, free verse, iambic pentameter, some haikus, a couple limericks. Anything that could--"

"Disrupt the beat," Jon finished. He looked at Martin in awe. "You - you saved me with poetry. Martin, you're brilliant!"

Blushing profusely, Martin said, "Um...sure. But what do we do about everything else? How do we stop the Slaughter?"

"We listen," Jon said.

"What?!"

"It's like when I followed you into the Lonely. I let myself Know so I could trace your path," Jon said. "If I listen, if I Know where it's coming from and I follow the music to it's origin...that might be enough."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but that's never stopped me before, has it?"

Martin laughed. "No. No, it hasn't."

Jon closed his eyes and opened his mind. He was no longer afraid of the power, but it was overwhelming all the same to receive the full brunt of it all at once. He let himself Know and he listened. He heard the drums, their thunderous beat still an unnerving pulse within his veins. The sound was muffled, less prominent. He heard the sound of the pipes as well, a mournful song of battlefields won and lost. He remembered Wilfred Owen's statement of the Piper and he shuddered knowing the creature was in their midst.

"He's been here the whole time," Jon said, opening his eyes to meet Martin's. The younger man looked confused. "The Piper, or something like it. He's here."

"Show me," Martin said, his face determined like Jon had never seen before.

"Help me up," Jon said. Still swaying on his feet, Jon let Martin support his weight as they exited the bedroom. Daisy and Georgie had their pistols pointed into the ever-increasing mob of Slaughter zombies with plenty already littering the floor either unconscious or cradling injured arms and legs. He was certain at least a few of them were dead by Melanie's newly acquired sword. And standing there, in the center of the flat, was the three-faced Conductor.

He stood tall, just a hair's breadth from touching the ceiling. There appeared to be only one body shared between the faces, but at any moment the body would shift towards the dominate face. It was hard to tell why the shift happened when they all appeared to be acting in unison. One face was blackened with soot and smoke, it's eyes sunken in, it's teeth sharp and dripping with tar. It played a snare drum, keeping the steady, frantic beat that Jon had rebelled against. Another face was smeared in blood, eyes covered with a bandage circling its head. It played the pipe with fingers stripped of skin and muscle until only the bones remained. The last face was pristine, clear of any smudges or stains, eyes shining like stars in the skies. In it's hands were pages soaked in carnage and havoc, the words clearly executed as precisely as they were written. A poem of butchery. A song of annihilation. He was all of them and they were all Him.

But Jon, and Martin through Jon, saw their truth. He Knew them now and he wouldn't allow another person to suffer at the monster's pleasure.

"**_STOP_**," Jon said, directing the compulsion at the Conductor. All three faces looked to him with menacing eyes. There was a pause before they resumed as if Jon were a child interrupting a crucial performance. Daisy and Georgie noticed the brief change in the eyes of the mob's participants. Even Melanie stumbled before striking a man on the shoulder to keep him from crossing the threshold. He faltered, but kept hold of his gun.

Jon gathered his will, condensed it, refined it, and extended it towards the Conductor again.

"**_STOP. PLAYING_**," he ordered. The Piper stopped, the last note a strangled dissonance of hatred and fervor. The words died on the Poet's forked tongue, one of the damp pages awash with gore slipping from it's pustuled fingers. But the Drummer kept playing. It played faster and faster, striking the drum with frenetic energy that heightened the mania of the mob. Jon grit his teeth and collected what was left of his power, shoving it into the Drummer's mind.

"**_I. SAID. STOP. PLAYING! _**" he commanded. Jon's voice was like static, hissing with electricity that reminded Martin of the recordings when avatars exerted their power. The screeching whine of magnetic tape stayed the Drummer's hands and the Conductor stood still and silent.

Two shots rang out.

It happened so fast, it seemed like it didn't happen at all. Martin saw Daisy standing over the man who'd fired, her own bullet practically decimating his arm after Melanie had already damaged it with the katana. But where did the other shot land?

"Martin, catch him!" Georgie shouted. In that split second, Martin understood that Jon was falling and there was blood spreading across his torso. He caught him before he completely crumbled to the floor, holding him in a bridal carry. Jon's eyes were wide with shock. He tried to speak, but there were no words that could describe the sensations and emotions passing through.

"Jon..."

"It'll...heal," Jon said through the pain. "I need...to...finish...this."

"Right," Martin said, nodding emphatically despite the fear creeping into his consciousness. Jon looked to the compliant Conductor and the newly tempered mob and gave his final order.

"**_LEAVE! _**"

The Conductor vanished from his Sight. He heard Melanie drop the katana, gasping with the realization of what she'd done. Georgie was by her side instantly, consoling and comforting her as best she could. Daisy started herding the remaining members of the liberated mob away from the flat, threatening them with the slightest lift of her eyebrow if they dared return. Jon thought he heard the Distortion's laughter, but his hearing was only at half capacity. He felt his face go flush at the sudden awareness.

"I can't - I can't hear, Martin," Jon said.

"It's okay, Jon," Martin soothed. He laid Jon on the sofa, lifting his shirt to look at the bullet wound. It'd gone clean through his abdomen. Martin used the already bloodied shirt to plug the exit wound, leaning Jon back against the pillows for support. He found a second shirt in the laundry bag and placed it over the entrance wound, pressing firmly to staunch the blood flow. Jon grabbed hold of his free hand, squeezing tightly with purpose. Georgie quickly spirited Melanie into their bedroom, closing the door. Daisy was already conferring with Helen about what to do with the remaining bodies, living and dead.

"No...Martin, I should - my hearing should've - it should've come back by now," Jon said. It was getting harder to breathe and the effort to stay awake was becoming greater than the energy he could expend. He saw the moment Martin understood the underlying issue.

"Maybe...maybe we just need to wait a little longer," he said, optimistically. It did nothing to comfort either of them. "A few more minutes, Jon. You'll be fine."

"I'll...be fine," Jon whispered. He blinked once. Twice. His eyes shut and Martin felt his grip relax. Hesitantly, Martin lifted the shirt-turned-bandage to check the wound. It looked the same. There were none of the tell-tale signs that his avatar healing abilities had kicked into overdrive. It looked worse, blood pooling instantly without the pressure to keep it at bay. Martin trembled, fear washing over him instantly.

"He's not healing..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 7 - The Piper  
MAG 147 - Weaver


	9. The 8th Labor - Heal the Flesh

Jon's face glistened with sweat, his body shivering from blood loss. He was barely conscious. Through half opened eyes he searched the room as it blurred in and out of focus. In his good ear he could make out the not-so-quiet argument happening between Martin and Daisy by the window. They were haloed in light from outside and Jon thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He was delirious, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

"We have to get him to a doctor," Martin stressed. "He'll bleed out if we don't do something."

"Where do you suggest we go?" Daisy asked. 

"The hospital, for one!" Martin said.

"You think everything's running at full capacity right now? When was the last time you heard a siren?" Daisy said. Martin tried to think of an example within the last two weeks, but there were none to be had. "Sectioned officers and regular people were in that mob. If the Slaughter could do that...who knows which Entity could muck things up around life-saving equipment and people with access to scalpels."

"We have to _try_," Martin said. 

Daisy sighed, knowing he was right. They owed Jon that much. "We don't have a car--"

"Like that ever stopped you," Martin muttered. He got a look for that one.

"And we don't know what the state of the roads are outside of this area if we happened to _acquire_ transportation," she finished. "Running him around London is likely to do more damage."

Martin let out a frustrated growl. "Then we'll use Helen's door! Helen, could we borrow your...Helen? HELEN!"

The Distortion was leaning over the sofa, its body curly-cuing to get a better look at the Archivist. Her impossibly long, blade-like fingers delicately held Jon's head as she examined him. Jon could only register part of what was happening. He saw swirls of color and an endless array of electric patterns twisting and contorting. There were slit eyes and sharp teeth staring at him curiously and, for a brief moment, his mind wondered if he'd fallen down the rabbit hole for good.

"You seem unwell, Archivist," Helen said, her voice echoing with amusement.

"Helen," Martin said, cautiously, "can you please..."

"Because...I...am...unwell," Jon responded, weakly. He felt her fingers press in a little more, tiny puncture wounds dotting his jawline.

She frowned. "Pity. I will miss our chats."

He shivered uncontrollably, but managed a twitch of a smile. "You-you know...what? S-so w-will I..."

"Perhaps you'd like to roam my corridors? I've never been an Archivist," she said. "What fun we might have." Jon's eyes drooped as he tried to concentrate on her wandering patterns. They were soothing to watch, hypnotic. He knew he needed to stay awake, but he was having a harder time remembering why it was so important.

"Please, Helen...can you - can you let go of Jon?" Martin asked, politely. Her head twisted around to face Martin, startling him. Her frown upturned, though Martin couldn't quite call it a smile that snaked across her face. It was too sinister, too _interested_ in his reaction. Daisy stood resolute by his side, snarling her intentions should Helen decide to do anything other than what Martin asked. The Distortion regarded her like one would regard a puppy seeking attention, but she gently released her hold on Jon's face, letting his head fall softly back on the pillow.

"You're more than welcome to join him," she said. "Companionship is important in these exciting times." Her jaggedly fluid form slipped behind the sofa once again, leaving room for Martin to occupy the nearby chair and tend to Jon without Helen hovering over them.

"I'll think about it," Martin muttered. Taking a wet cloth, he rung it out and wiped down Jon's face, frowning at the increase in temperature. Pulling down the blanket, Martin checked the bandages he'd piled on top of the entrance wound. It was starting to soak through again. The bandages on the exit wound were only slightly less tinged with red. Sighing in frustration, Martin rubbed his own face, resting a hand over his eyes as he tried not to cry.

"H-how - how's Melanie?" Jon asked, breathlessly. He was clenching the blanket, each grasp a sign of the pain coursing through his body. Martin took his hand, letting him communicate the pain through him.

"Georgie's still with her," Martin said. "Might be a while until she's even close to okay."

"You - you'll look...you'll look...af-after them?" Jon asked.

"I think the person who needs looking after is the one laid out in front of me," Martin said, side-stepping the question.

Jon scowled at him, but it smoothed out in favor of a much sadder expression. "Mar-Martin, I - I lo--"

"Don't you dare," Martin whispered, sharply. "Not now. I...we'll figure something out."

Jon had never said the words. It wasn't his style, not like Martin, to be as effusive with his affection. Jon wasn't exactly a "man of action" either, but it had historically been his primary method of displaying his true feelings. He'd walked into the Lonely without hesitation to bring Martin back. He'd held Martin's hand, hugged him close, and rallied against the lingering fog as they traveled to Scotland. They'd made a home together for three perfect weeks. That was an expression of love beyond language. And now he was trying to say the words because he thought his time was up, but Martin wasn't going to let him give in so easily.

"So stubborn..." Jon sighed, eyes drifting closed. "So beautiful..."

"No flattery either," Martin insisted through watery eyes. He wiped at them quickly, trying to maintain some composure for Jon's sake. Maybe he sensed the chill in Martin's skin or maybe he knew Martin so well that his emotional state was easy to interpret; either way Jon lifted his hand to Martin's cheek to gently wipe away the remaining tears.

"Don't go away," he whispered.

"Same to you," Martin said. "What if...there's got to be some way for you to Know how to stop this, right? Some ritual or - or spell that could fix you?"

"A pamphlet with specific instructions," Daisy offered.

Jon started to chuckle, but the breathy lightness turned sour and grim as Martin heard the the static rise in Jon's throat. His eyes snapped open and Martin recoiled at the familiar green and black coloring of the Watcher. Jon's body was likely too weak to allow even the Eye to sit it up properly, but that didn't stop the Entity's smug satisfaction from coming through his convalescent state.

"_**So brave at the end**_," it said through Jon's mouth. Even Helen appeared disturbed by the presence of the Watcher speaking through the Archivist. "_**I've enjoyed your little escapades. What a shame for them to conclude so pathetically.**_"

Martin's jaw tightened along with his fists. His body shook with barely contained anger as he looked at the thing wearing Jon, taunting him for its own amusement. 

"It's only ending because you cheated," Martin said, coldly. 

The Eye forced Jon's body upright, the insult too great for the Entity to ignore. "_**You dare accuse the Ceaseless Watcher of cheating?**_"

"I don't even know what game we're playing, but I know you've deliberately stymied Jon," Martin said. He was beyond caring who or what he was talking to. If the Watcher was willing to let Jon die, then Martin was going to make damn sure he got a word in edgewise before the Fear killed him for the offense of defending the man he loved. He was tired of petty gods and avatars and their equally petty wagers and games at the expense of human lives. The Eye had been the one to set the arbitrary terms of Jon earning his freedom. What did it matter that he was receiving new marks and defeating other aspects and agents of the Entities when the Eye had already won? 

Or had it?

"You're scared...aren't you?" Martin said, locking eyes with the Watcher. The challenge was obvious in his tone and he felt Daisy closing in in case he needed a bodyguard. The Watcher at least had the decency to change Jon's expression to an approximation of anxious. It was all Martin needed. "Yeah. I reckon you're afraid of what happens if Jon succeeds. The only question is: What scares a god of fear?"

There was a quiet, yet insistent series of knocks on the door. Nobody moved until Helen glided over and threw open the door with a great flourish. Standing at the threshold was a tall black woman dressed in a dark pencil skirt, blouse, and blazer combination. Her eyes were a piercing slate grey that drew you in almost immediately, tasking you to say and do whatever she pleased with a smile and a nod. Her bald head might have sported hair at some point, but it would have obscured her most intriguing and identifying feature: a crack in her head where nothing appeared to occupy the space except cobwebs and spiders.

Annabelle Cane had arrived.

"He may not be as sharp as your Detective, but a valiant effort regardless," she said, smiling at Martin as she entered the flat. She paused to give a slight nod to Helen, who returned the acknowledgement, and to Daisy, who did not.

"_**Spider**_!" the Watcher growled, the word surrounded by the haze of white noise and corrupted audio. It was made all the worse for Martin hearing the anguish in Jon's real voice slipping through the cracks. Sweat dripped from his ashen face, the tremors in his body more prominent due to the Watcher eating up his reserves of energy. Jon was going to die right in front of him if the Eye didn't withdraw soon. Annabelle appeared to come to the same conclusion. She looked the sickly body of the possessed Archivist up and down, tutting her disapproval.

"You made a deal, Beholding. Altering the rules only makes you look weak," she said. She leaned in close, smiling seductively as she whispered loud enough for Martin to hear. "And it changes nothing."

"_**Your lies hold no power in my domain. I See all. I Know all. Your webs cannot conceal you anymore**_," the Eye threatened. Annabelle gave a disinterested shrug, which only enraged the Watcher more.

"Perhaps. However, I came here to have a conversation with the Archivist. So, off you pop," she said, calmly.

Jon's face contorted into a malicious smile. "_**Good luck**_."

One blink.

Two blinks.

Jon convulsed desperately for air as the black and otherworldly green faded from his eyes. He fell back listlessly, exhausted and weakened from the Watcher's control. Martin caught him, guiding him back to the soft cushions and blanket. He checked the bandages; they were completely soaked with blood. Jon shivered, gasping softly into the pillow as he fought to stay conscious. He was aware someone else was in the flat, someone he Knew to be dangerous for so many reasons. He forced his eyes open as much as he could to address their visitor.

"A-Ann...Annabelle," he said in a weak yet curt tone.

"Hello, Jon," she said, fondly. "You're looking so much worse than the last time I saw you."

"Wh-when w-was...w-where'm...?" He was losing focus, the words falling away with it. Martin knelt by the sofa so he could capture Jon's attention. Stroking Jon's face, he gently coaxed his eyes open again. Jon smiled at him lovingly. "...M'rtin..."

"I think Annabelle's here to talk to you, love," Martin said.

"Isssshe?" he asked, eyes drooping lower. "Th'ss nice..."

Martin looked to the Web's avatar. "Whatever you want to say, I suggest you say it quickly. He...he doesn't have a lot of time."

Placing her purse on the kitchen table, Annabelle walked around the sofa, standing over the pair with a disarmingly earnest expression. Martin made sure to clock where Daisy and Helen were - the former maintaining enough distance to attack if needed and the latter slinking across the ceiling to get a better vantage point to the proceedings. Extending her hand slowly, Annabelle touched Jon's face, a mirror of what Helen had done not a few minutes before. Jon barely reacted and Martin was so focused on watching what Annabelle was doing that he didn't notice the tiny spider crawl down her arm, over her hand, and bite into Jon's neck. In an instant, Jon's eyes were wide open, a startled shout of surprise on his lips as he flung forward. Helen's delighted laughter reverberated throughout the flat.

"Jon!" Martin shouted. Holding fingers to the spot where he'd been bitten, Jon looked at Annabelle with mild fury.

"What...the hell?" he said with more clarity than he'd shown since he'd been shot.

"My apologies," she said, raising her hands to show Daisy and Martin she meant no harm. "I needed you to be lucid for this part of our conversation."

Breathing heavily, Jon nodded. "Go on."

"You're mortally injured and the Watcher has no intentions of restoring your ability to heal," she said, matter-of-factly. There was no pretense, no delicately placed words meant to twist and tangle with lies. She was making the most of whatever limited time she'd given Jon to comprehend her effectively. "If you intend to complete this deal made by Mr. Blackwood, then you'll need help. Our help."

"How?" Martin asked.

She smiled mischievously. "Who better to stitch up wounds than creatures practiced in silk and thread?"

Pointing to the floor, Martin followed her movements and practically jumped at the spiders that had gathered around the sofa. He felt Jon grip his arm when he noticed the multitude as well. Many of them had balled webbing attached to their backsides. Looking around to the corners where the spiders had been spinning their webs for the last two weeks, there were none to be found. They'd been preparing from the moment they entered the flat. Martin locked eyes with Jon, feeling the fear radiating off of him. He was breathing heavily again, his face flush with sweat. He was on the verge of a panic attack if he wasn't already there.

"Jon, it's okay," Martin said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "It's gonna be--"

"Fine. Fine. It's...I-I can do this," Jon said in a weak attempt to psych himself up. He looked to Martin again, eyes wide and fearful. "I can do this, right?"

"Yeah," Martin said. "You've done so much more. This...this is nothing, Jon. Nothing compared to what you've already faced."

His eyes were getting glassy again. The adrenaline rush he'd been given was starting to wear off and Jon felt himself weakening. Skimming past the spiders, Jon looked up at Annabelle, swallowed hard, and nodded. Annabelle acknowledged his decision. Moving closer, the spiders spreading out to give her a clear path, she snapped her fingers above Jon's head. His eyes rolled up and he fell back into Martin's arms, unconscious.

"What did you--?" Daisy started.

"It's better if he isn't awake for this," Annabelle said. Martin believed her, but he didn't entirely trust the care and concern she was showing towards Jon's well-being.

"It's okay, Daisy," Martin said. It clearly wasn't, but there was little else Daisy could do other than remain alert and trust Martin with handling the Web.

"Thank you. Please lay him down, Martin," Annabelle instructed. Martin did as he was told, settling Jon back down among the pillows. "Good. Now, back away."

The spiders fanned out as Martin stepped back. Once he was clear of Jon and the sofa, the spiders advanced, crawling up and around Jon's body. Martin turned, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the repulsive surgery taking place. He didn't want to have the image of Jon engulfed by spiders stuck in his mind and his imagination didn't require additional help concocting such terrible imagery. Jon was going to need him when he woke up because he _would_ wake up. Whatever Annabelle wanted with them, he was willing to do to repay the time she'd given them. However fleeting it seemed.

***

The first thing Jon became aware of was the soft mattress and fluffed pillows beneath his body. The pull-out was fine for what he and Martin needed, but only the bed in Georgie and Melanie's flat was this comfortable. 

The second was his hearing had returned in his left ear because Martin was shifting in the chair situated next to the bed.

The third sent chills down his spine as he remembered Annabelle's offer, his consent, and the sweet oblivion that followed. Unfortunately, in his half awakened state he Knew what happened while he was unconscious. It was every nightmare he'd had since his encounter with _Mr. Spider_ made real.

He saw the spiders scurrying across his body in a horde that couldn't match the avalanche of worms he'd been subjected to, but felt equally massive due to his baseline fear. They'd spread their webs like blankets across his skin, splitting into groups to tackle his injuries. A small regiment made for his ear, skittering inside to restore his hearing. The itch of their legs from within his ear canal left lingering phantoms of sensation he would never forget. The rest had gathered around his lower body, dividing further still with disturbing efficiency. He felt them enter his body, following the bullet's path as they stitched and repaired him from the inside out. At the entrance and exit wounds, they nibbled at the dead and infected tissue, clotting his blood with finely woven thread, until they were satisfied enough to close the wounds entirely. Even with their job done, he felt them crawling up and down, inside and outside, nestling into his organs and stringing his bones together; transforming him into Annabelle's puppet. He wouldn't be another tool, another instrument of fear. He was done with it, done with all of them, and he refused to let them--

"Jon! Jon, wake up!" Martin called. He felt gentle tapping on his face and realized he was shaking with every rapid intake of breath. His heart was racing, but in his confusion, Jon felt the prickling of legs ghosting across his chest. They were filling his lungs with webbing, blocking his throat and nose with silk.

"Get them out! Get them out of me!" Jon cried as he pitched forward, awake and pulsing with terror. There was no time to process his change of clothes or the obvious panic on Martin's face. Jon clawed at his chest and stomach, lifting his shirt to find...nothing. There was no wound, not even a scar. Just healthy-looking, smooth brown skin. If he didn't know for a fact that it was true, he could've imagined his encounter with the Slaughter was an elaborate and perturbing dream. He felt Martin's hand on his and looked up to meet his concerned eyes. "I saw...I-I saw...I f-felt..."

"There's not one left in you," Martin said, maintaining his air of confidence. "I made sure of it and Daisy double-checked."

Jon nodded. It was true because Martin said so and that was all he needed. Leaning against the backboard, Jon took a few minutes to release his panic and steady his breathing. He felt the mattress dip as Martin joined him on the bed and sighed with relief when he felt their fingers intertwine.

"Better?" Martin asked.

"Yes. How long was I out?"

"A few hours. Georgie should almost be done making dinner - pasta, I think. Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Jon said. Martin perked up and Jon couldn't help smiling back in dumb adoration. He let Martin help him off the bed. His body was still weak and shaking from the blood loss, but it was better than he'd been when the day began. Exiting the bedroom, they were greeted by a relieved Georgie making a plate of garlic-heavy fettuccine for Melanie who was sat between Georgie and Daisy at the kitchen table. Helen was nowhere to be found and sitting at the opposite end of the table, drinking tea from an oversized mug while gently stroking the Admiral's fur, was Annabelle Cane.

She met them with a warm smile, motioning for them to continue forward. "Excellent. You're awake. Come, come, have some food. Have some tea. And then we'll start the other part of our conversation."

Jon stopped by Melanie, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. She covered his hand with hers, but reached out with the other, pulling him in for a brief hug. He leaned into it, whispering into her ear, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Melanie."

"It's okay," she said, her voice catching, but strong in her conviction. "I'll be okay. So will you."

He nodded, ending the hug so Martin could help him over to his chair at the end of the table. Martin made sure to plant his chair, and his body, between Jon and Annabelle. She gave another amused smile and continued to pet the Admiral. Georgie quickly set their plates in front of them, but neither Jon nor Martin made any move to eat.

"Why are you here, Annabelle?" Jon asked. He didn't bother with the compulsion. There was no point with her.

Setting her mug aside and giving the Admiral time to jump from her lap, Annabelle turned her complete attention and focus to Jon and Martin. It was like being on the other side of the Beholding. The impulse was there to just act and speak on her behalf. Her eyes were cold, but inviting and Jon felt an involuntary shiver travel up his body. He tried not to think about the spiders again, but the inside of his ear continued to itch.

"The Eye can See and Watch and Know, but it doesn't Understand," she began. "Context is where the loopholes lie and the Watcher realized, far too late, that it had entered into a rather crucial deal without thinking through the consequences."

"Sounds familiar," Daisy and Melanie said in unison. Daisy gave Melanie's shoulder a friendly nudge.

"You asked for Jon's freedom, Martin, and the Watcher set the terms because it wanted to Watch you suffer - as it's wont to do," Annabelle explained. "It made the assumption that Jon, in his guilt-ridden, weakened state, would succumb to any one of the Fears and die before all of the marks could be collected. The Eye doesn't understand human determination...or love, for that matter. How can it when all it wants is to observe, but not engage?"

"So what does this deal really mean, then?" Martin asked.

"Magnus was correct in his assumption of balancing the Entities within one vessel in order to open the door," she said. "But doors, as you know, work both ways. If it can be opened..."

"Then it can be shut as well," Jon finished.

"Exactly," Annabelle confirmed.

"This whole time...we - Jon's been...because I...?" Martin stammered, trying to wrap his head around the last two months of fear and pain and, finally, hope.

"To be honest, I didn't think it would happen so soon," Annabelle said. "We'd been planning for this from the beginning. I sent the tapes along with Magnus's statement, knowing you'd eventually get your act together and listen to them for lack of any other solid plan of action. But then you went and stumbled into our web without any assistance from us at all. Perhaps you are _becoming a spider-person_, Martin."

Martin paled at her dead-on impression of his impression of Jon.

"Wait, you sent the tapes? Not Basira?" Jon asked.

"I'm afraid Ms. Hussain was compromised long before her care package was sent," Annabelle said. Martin gripped Jon's hand as he replayed all of the conversations he'd had with Basira after leaving London. Was there a moment when she turned that he would've noticed? Had she been compromised before they left for Scotland? Did she know or care what happened? What she'd help facilitate?

"Is she alive?" Daisy asked. Annabelle gave her a long, cool look. She was assessing what Daisy could handle hearing and the former Hunter let her understand, without a word spoken, that she would accept nothing less than the truth.

"Yes. She is alive."

"But?" Daisy asked.

"I can't speak to the state of her mind. Jonah Magnus isn't the only parasite housed within the archives," she said. Daisy nodded, but refused to show any emotion in front of the Web's avatar. She accepted, however, Melanie's hand and the tight squeeze of friendly support.

"I suppose we'll find out, then, won't we?" Jon said. "The archives is where we were always headed, wasn't it?"

Annabelle smiled, an impish glint in her eyes. "I do love when a story comes full circle. But, yes, if you truly want this to end, to 'save the world,' then you need to stop the corpse at the center of it all."

"Gladly," Martin said.

"Excellent! I've brought some gifts that will help you in that endeavor," she said, excitedly. Placing her purse on the table, she pulled out two very familiar items to Jon: the spider-web lighter and the urn containing the ashes of Jane Prentiss. Then she produced three objects he wasn't expecting: two human ribs and a damaged paperback with a black cover and a faded white serif title.

Georgie gasped. "Are those--?"

"They're mine," Jon said. He Knew they were his. There was no questioning it when he could feel the phantom pain in his chest. "Those are my ribs. I understand the one, but how did you get the other from Jared?"

"He was all too eager to get rid of it," Annabelle said. "Said it was _weird_, I believe. Didn't feel right."

"And the book?" Martin asked.

"Yes, _The Boneturner's Tale_. Mr. Hopworth was less inclined to part with that," she said.

"And how did you get him to part with it?" Melanie asked.

"I believe Daisy's assessment of hospital safety measures during a crisis such as this was quite accurate," Annabelle stated. She looked directly at Daisy and Martin. "Best not to go to Barts any time soon."

Jon let out a frustrated sigh. "I - Why? I think I understand the lighter and the urn, but...why my ribs and the book?"

Annabelle tented her fingers, staring at Jon like a teacher lecturing her student. "Encounters with the Flesh are hardly pleasant, Jon. You've read the statements. It's meat and bones wrapped up in more meat and bones. And while setting up a meet-cute between you and a member of the Haan family would be entertaining, this seemed like the most efficient way of receiving that mark. If you don't want your ribs back, I can always--"

"Fine. It's...fine," he said, reaching for the book. Annabelle slapped his hand away instantly. The sting of it lingered longer than it should.

"This is not a solo affair," she scolded. "You'll recall what happened after your ribs were initially taken?"

"I certainly do," Melanie said. "Helen and I had a very pleasant conversation while we waited for him to wake up."

"Your health isn't much better now even after our help," Annabelle stated. "Someone else will have to act as your bonesetter."

"I'll do it," Martin said.

"Martin..." Jon cautioned. Good intentions or not, _The Boneturner's Tale_ was still a Leitner and they both knew how Jared Hopworth reacted after acquiring it.

"You passed out before," Martin said. "Better me than you hurting yourself."

"I...okay..." Jon agreed. It was a hard pill to swallow, but there was no argument that would work in his favor or convince Martin otherwise. Like most things, they'd have to weather the experience together.

Satisfied with the outcome, Annabelle gathered her purse and stood with the intent to leave. Before doing so, she pulled a key from her blazer pocket and set it in front of Martin. "You'll likely need some privacy as it can be quite...invasive. The flat next door has been empty for months and we're certain it's free of any unwanted visitors. Helen has graciously offered to provide you with safe passage to the archives, when you're ready, and I've arranged for some special assistance for when you need it."

She was practically out the door before Jon asked, "What do you get out of this?"

Annabelle's smile was all unnerving saccharine and zeal. "The world, Jon. We get the world as it was. The world as we liked it."

"That's it? No bitterness or jealousy that the Eye succeeded? Just set the world to rights and business as usual?" Jon pressed. She walked towards him, kneeling down so they were face to face, so he could get a good look at the crack in her head and the spark in her eyes.

"Yes, Jon. It really is that simple," she said. Turning to Martin, she added, "Chapter 5 should be all you need."

She left and there were no more spiders to be found.

***

The flat next door had, indeed, been cleared out save for two chairs in the kitchen and a mattress in the bedroom. The landlord might have been prepping to show the place at some point, but then the Apocalypse hit and they likely figured not a lot of people would be in the market for a flat or even willing to step outside for longer than was necessary. And that's where they found themselves, on a mostly stripped down bed, their bags on the floor, a Leitner and two ribs between them. Georgie had given them blankets and pillows, sending them off with a quiet, "Be careful."

They'd been sitting in silence for some time, neither sure how to begin. Logically, it was a straight forward undertaking, but they both understood that they were headed towards uncharted territory in their relationship. They couldn't very well say that they'd been dating. They were just _together_ and that was enough given how their feelings had developed in relation to the events surrounding them. Some displays of affection came naturally; hugs, kisses, holding hands, standing between the other and certain death were standard fare. Beyond that, they'd only had a very short, very awkward talk about boundaries concerning sex. For Jon, his asexuality made the boundaries fairly clear. He had no interest or desire for sex, but he knew Martin's desires were different. He was willing to experiment and explore that aspect of their relationship, but only if there was open communication and trust between them to stop without fear of shame or recrimination. Martin agreed and that had been the end of their conversation. They'd made dinner, Jon read from one of the five books found in the safe house, and they went to bed. A week later, Jonah Magnus used Jon to end the world.

For Martin, this felt worse, like he was about to violate their agreement with Jon's permission. He wanted nothing more than for someone else to take on the task, but who else could Jon trust for such a bizarrely specific act? It was better that they faced this together. The world was at stake and, more importantly, so was Jon's life. It lifted the guilt slightly, but not enough for Martin to feel entirely gung-ho about the ordeal.

Steeling himself with quiet resolve, Martin finally looked at Jon. He was just as lost, just as unsure, and when their eyes met they both breathed easier knowing the other was struggling with the same doubts and conflicting emotions.

"Right," Martin said. "Ready?"

"No, but...yes," Jon answered. Martin nodded, feeling the same.

"Okay, um...do you want to...sit up? Lean back?" Martin asked.

Jon took a moment to assess his placement on the bed. "Uhh...sit up, I suppose."

"Alright and - ahem - shirt on or...off?"

Color rose immediately in Jon's cheeks.

"...off..."

It was a plain blue T-shirt, but the simple act of removal sent a wave of heat up Martin's neck and down to his stomach. Martin swallowed hard, but kept his face calm for Jon. His brave, stubborn, beautiful Jon. He leaned in, kissing him gently, hopefully communicating safety and trust. Jon's response echoed his. When the kiss ended, Martin reached for _The Boneturner's Tale_, turning to Chapter 5 as Annabelle had advised.

Martin had never touched a Leitner, let alone read one, but the effect was immediate and intoxicating as the middle English words melded together into a jumbled language he could understand. The Lonely wasn't an empowering Entity compared to the others. It fed on isolation and the reactive nature of human beings to retreat from community and personal interaction. To be Forsaken was to stand apart from society, never touching, never engaging. Reading a piece associated with the Flesh, however, filled him with an unshakeable sense of the truly staggering amount of power he had over others. And in this moment, all of that power was concentrated on Jon. His body, his flesh and bones, were Martin's to manipulate, to do with as he pleased. It was a level of control he'd never experienced, but had always been on the opposite end. As the pages turned, he understood the endless desire to dominate that had ensnared men like Jared Hopworth.

"Martin?" Jon asked, hesitantly. The tone of his voice, the naked vulnerability, snapped Martin out of the book's trance. Jon needed him. Jon trusted him and he wasn't going to let a damned Leitner ruin that.

"Sorry," he said. "Power of books, right?"

"Right," Jon said. Keeping one hand on the book, Martin picked up a rib and moved towards Jon's chest. He stopped inches away, giving Jon time to prepare.

"Ready?" he asked. Jon closed his eyes.

"Yes."

Martin pressed his hand and the rib against Jon. There was a hitch of breath from the sudden feeling of a colder hand on warm skin, but Jon eventually relaxed, adjusting to the sensation. Giving him another minute, Martin waited for the nod from Jon before he pushed into his chest. There was no blood, no open wound to speak of. Martin was just inside Jon, fumbling around with his rib to return it to it's proper place. He'd never felt more awkward, but at the same time a feeling of exhilaration pierced his body. Jon's eyes remained closed, his brow furrowed as sharp gasps of pain escaped his lips. Martin used his moans and gasps as a barometer, searching for the break where the rib had been removed. It was taking longer than he thought and he could hear Jon's agony increasing in volume.

"Jon," Martin said, urgently. "Jon, look at me."

The Archivist did so and Martin felt his heart break at the troubled eyes glassy with pain. "It's okay, Martin. I'm okay."

"Just...eyes on me, alright? Eyes on me," Martin said. And there it was, the puzzle piece with just the right edge. Martin joined the ends together and knew the book's power would hold them permanently. He pulled his hand out as quickly as possible, flinching at the sound of shock and Jon's heavy gulps of air. It took a moment before Martin realized he was breathing heavily as well, sweat pouring down his body from heat and exhaustion. "One down. One to go."

"Yeah, let's - uh - let's get this over with," Jon said, his voice strained and hoarse.

"Do you need to re--?"

"No! I want this - can we _please_ finish this?" he asked, eyes begging for release. It was the worst image of Jon he could imagine after his stretch as a coma patient in hospital. He didn't want to be the reason Jon felt such anguish. He didn't want this level of intimacy between them to be mired in pain and suffering. Knowing what had to be done, Martin nodded, but moved in closer so there was little to no space between him and Jon.

"Right...last one," Martin said.

He took the remaining rib and pushed into Jon's chest before there was time to react. All at once, Jon's hand was on his shoulder, their foreheads pressed together as they braced against each other. Their breaths mingled, chests heaving in sync, as Martin fastened the last rib in place. No fumbling, no searching, just the certainty of its connection guiding him. Once his hand was free of Jon's chest and he'd expelled his final gasp of distress, Martin lifted his hand from _The Boneturner's Tale_ and pushed the book as far away as possible.

Without thought or care, just pure adrenaline and need, Martin devoured Jon's mouth, kissing him with the kind of reckless abandon he'd only read about in romance novels. He never wanted Jon to doubt their connection or Martin's respect for his body. He didn't want to waste time on words and awkward pauses that could be misconstrued, so he went for the path of pleasure. Jon was with him, responding, but Martin made sure every union of lips and breath was a promise and an apology.

"Martin!" Jon laughed, breathlessly, as he pulled away. "I need to...I need to breathe..."

"Sorry," Martin said, just as out of breath as Jon. "I didn't - I wanted to erase the trauma. I didn't want you to associate my - my touch with something - something awful."

Jon kissed him again, slow and sweet. "I love you."

"Jon..."

"You wouldn't let me say it when I thought I was dying," he said. "But now...I'm not dying, more or less, and you've stupidly and bravely put your sanity on the line to restore my rib cage. So, I'm saying it. I love you."

"Please...say it again," Martin said.

Jon smiled. "I love you."

"One more time," Martin requested, leaning in closer to offer another soft kiss.

Jon chuckled against his lips. "I love you, Martin Blackwood. I only wish I'd been able to say it sooner."

Martin engulfed him in a massive hug, sending the two of them flat on the bed with laughter that turned into more urgent kisses that eventually softened into lazy caresses. Exhaustion hit them both hard and it wasn't long before they'd made the bed up and fell asleep in each other's arms with the words, "I love you" whispered between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 17 - The Boneturner's Tale  
MAG 131 - Flesh


	10. The 9th Labor - Purge the Corruption

It was another five days before Jon felt strong enough to leave for the Magnus Institute. Using _The Boneturner's Tale_ had exhausted both him and Martin, the next two days spent mostly in bed as they slept themselves through to recovery. Even though he'd used the book directly, Martin bounced back quicker and was able to resume the task of keeping Jon alive and relatively healthy. Georgie brought food over if they didn't cross the hall to her flat, cups of tea were pushed into hands at regular intervals, and idle chatter became the background noise of wherever they found themselves. Anything to keep their minds occupied and engaged.

There was nothing Martin could do to stop the nightmares. They weren't a new obstacle, obviously, but the Watcher was doubling down on their intensity. Jon wasn't being dragged away to experience the trauma, but he woke throughout the night screaming from the terrors paraded before his mind's eye. He tried to avoid talking about the nightmares, but Martin was persistent in his tactics of care and comfort. It was no different then their routine in Scotland and Jon gave in easily to the combination of Martin's soothing voice and encouraging eyes. Hiding his fear and anguish was harder now that he had someone insisting his previous coping mechanisms were egregiously flawed. So they talked until Martin was satisfied with Jon's state of mind before nodding off and letting the cycle repeat. It left them both tired, but it was a level of exhaustion they were used to operating under. If they were in the final stretch of their deal, then being fatigued was the least awful of outcomes given their current situation.

Most of the time was spent planning their infiltration of the archives with Daisy. Using a map Jon drew conveniently from memory, they plotted entrance and exit points, defenses available and those that could be obtained or built once they arrived, and potential blind spots where anything and anyone associated with the Entities could emerge. Ambush was the operative word as they assessed even the most mundane areas of the Institute and the archives.

"My office is our best option for point of entry," Jon said. "It's equidistant from any supplies or necessary materials as well as the entrance to the tunnels. We won't have to run far if searching for Basira doesn't...doesn't yield results."

"She'll want to see me first," Daisy said, ignoring Jon's comment. "She made a promise to me before I changed last time."

"To find you and -- oh!" Jon said, realizing the conclusion of their unspoken agreement. He looked away, ashamed of Knowing something that wasn't his to know outright. "Sorry."

"Can't be helped. Not now," Daisy said, placing a soft but firm hand on Jon's shoulder. "Better that it's happening at all."

"She's right, Jon," Martin chimed in. "Your abilities are an asset to us for as long as you have them."

"Hmm," Jon grunted. He didn't believe them, but he didn't fight them on it either. Martin considered that a win. It was all about small victories with Jon.

"Is there anything from Artifact Storage worth acquiring?" Martin asked. "Might be some useful weapons...or defenses."

Jon focused for a minute, pulling what was available from the last inventory conducted. The push back was immediate, pressure and strain on his mind that wouldn't let his pursuit get past the archives' front door. He tried to break out of the search, but the pressure remained, clenching harder and harder until finally letting go. He gasped upon release. Martin's hands were cradling his face, Daisy was calling his name, but Jon still felt the lingering grip of the Watcher's warning.

"Message...received..." he panted.

"What happened, Jon?" Martin asked.

"Apparently my ability to Know has been...severely limited," he said. He didn't miss the look that passed between Daisy and Martin.

***

Later that night, Martin noticed Jon's agitated state as he climbed into bed. He knew it wasn't anticipation of the nightmares that he'd likely experience once he closed his eyes. He knew it wasn't about returning to the archives. Whatever it was creating that deep-seated scowl on Jon's face, Martin wanted it dealt with and eliminated before they did anything else. Scooting closer, Martin took Jon's hand, surprised when Jon jumped at the touch. Jon tried to recover quickly with an encouraging smile, but it barely reached his eyes. When he saw that Martin didn't believe his poor attempt at reassurance, he looked away, staring at the suddenly interesting threads of the blanket.

"What's wrong?" Martin asked, gliding his thumb across the scarred skin. "You've been quiet most of the day. Not that it's out of character for you, but...usually you're a lot chattier when it's just the two of us."

"I'm...worried," Jon said. He didn't pull away from Martin's hand, but he made no attempt to meet his eyes.

"About going back to the archives tomorrow?"

Jon shook his head. "No. I'm...I'm worried about what happens if I make it to the end."

Martin wanted to correct him. He wanted to emphasize _when_ over _if_, but then he realized there was something else to Jon's words. Something that had gone unacknowledged until now. "You mean _the_ The End?"

"Yes," Jon breathed. "I had to die to gain that mark. The only reason I'm even _here_ is because of the Watcher and living off statements. How...? Martin, what if my freedom is--"

"Don't. Please," Martin said, sharply.

He finally met Martin's gaze with a grimly defiant stare. "What if my freedom is death?"

"You think it hasn't crossed my mind?" Martin asked. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt but Jon could feel the tremors traveling through him. "Everything you've experienced. Everything you've faced so far...the only consistent thought I've had is 'this is it.' 'This is where I finally lose him.'"

"Why didn't you say something?" Jon asked. He placed his hand over Martin's, trying to soothe away the tremors.

"What good would it do?" Martin sniffled. He could feel his eyes watering already. He tried to look away, but Jon's free hand cupped his cheek, guiding him back so they were face to face once again. Jon's eyes were just as pitiful, but the smile was genuine and Martin couldn't help but return it with a wet laugh that was practically a sob. "I figured, if you didn't think I was scared, then you wouldn't be scared and...And maybe that would protect you somehow. Keep you confident that we could make it out in one piece. It was stupid, I know, but--"

"It wasn't stupid," Jon admonished, gently. "It was, unsurprisingly, brave."

Martin scoffed, wiping at his eyes and dripping nose. "I'm not--"

"Yes, you are," Jon said, a determined look etched into his face. He inched closer, taking Martin's face in his warm hands. "You're the bravest person I know, Martin. You give so much of yourself and I - I wish I had been a better person to have seen it sooner. You deserve a world without fear."

"So do you," Martin whispered. "That doesn't mean you have to die to get it."

The kiss was gentle, almost delicate. Jon savored the experience, cataloging it for when he'd need the memory most. Backing away ever so slightly, he took in all that was Martin Blackwood. He memorized his features: the slight bend of his nose, the vivid blue eyes, his thin lips and round cheeks, the way his dark brown curls beautifully framed his face. His body was perfectly plump, a solid shield against the terrors that regularly haunted them both. He smelled like summer rain and tea wrapped up in wool and glowing embers. He was awkward laughter and sing-song nerves protecting a kind, but fragile heart. There was so much to love about Martin and Jon secured it in his mind as a keepsake of everything he was fighting for.

Another kiss, deeper this time as he relished the feel of Martin's olive skin, listening to the sweet music of each gasp of surprise and every moan of pleasure. He felt his ear itch again, but ignored the errant sensation. All he wanted was Martin and he willingly gave over all of his senses, wrapping himself in everything that was the man he loved. For one night he wanted to be overwhelmed in something beautiful.

Jon tried not to treat their time together like it was their last night ever, but it was hard not to acknowledge the gigantic elephant in the room. Martin knew, of course he knew, but what more was there to say? The end was drawing near and they could only hope to keep each other close and fight like hell against whatever stood in their way.

By some miracle there were no dreams that night.

***

When they arrived in Georgie and Melanie's flat the next morning, a package was waiting for Jon. It was flat and thin, no more than ten inches wide, wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with red string. There was a note nestled beneath the string addressed to Jon. The handwriting was an eloquent, looping cursive that Jon recognized immediately as Annabelle Cane's. He stared at the note, feeling everyone's eyes on him. It was unnerving and he suddenly understood what everyone had been telling him for years.

There wasn't much to watch, however, since the note was brief:

_Jon,_

_You'll know when it's the right time to open this. Safe travels._

_\- Annabelle_

He quickly stuffed the package into his bag, tossing the note into the trash.

"You're not going to open it?" Georgie asked.

Jon shrugged. "It's not the right time," he said.

"Ready to go?" Daisy asked, hefting her duffel bag of weaponry over her shoulder. She was freshly showered and her eyes were sharp. She was ready for anything and Jon was so glad for her presence. The boys nodded and Jon turned back to Georgie, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

"Would it be okay to ask for a - oomph!"

Georgie slammed into Jon, wrapping her arms around his torso while pressing her face into his chest. It was the fiercest hug he'd ever experienced and he was so happy to be on the receiving end. He tried to return the hug with as much strength, but there was no matching Georgie Barker in such matters. After a few minutes of holding each other, she finally backed away, eyes brimming with tears.

"Be safe. Be careful," she whispered. He nodded, failing to stop his own tears. Turning to Melanie, he marveled at how far their friendship had come since they'd first argued after her statement three years back. He couldn't have asked for a better ally or a better friend in the woman standing before him. Sensing him nearby, she easily let Jon pull her into a hug.

"I wish I was going with you," she said.

Jon chuckled. "No you don't."

"You're right," she said. "Just do one thing for me, Jon."

"What's that?"

"Make sure Elias feels it. All of it."

"No promises, but, for you, I'm going to make the extra effort," he said. She backed out of the hug laughing, taking Georgie's hand as their friends approached the yellow door that had only just appeared, but had always been there. Daisy gave it three forceful knocks and within seconds Helen's sharply stretched fingers peeked through the cracks and opened the door.

"Are you ready, Archivist?" Helen asked without preamble.

Jon took Martin's hand and nodded.

"I am. Lead the way."

***

His office appeared exactly as he'd left it over two months ago. Jon took no comfort in that as they exited Helen's door. Daisy immediately dropped her bag to the side, pulling out her side arm and checking the office door that was thankfully shut. Jon moved to his desk, opening the drawers quickly while Martin kept both of them in his sights.

"My keys are gone," Jon said. 

"Did you have them when you went to the Panopticon?" Martin asked.

Jon shook his head. "I don't...I don't remember."

Martin's look of concern was startling enough. If he couldn't remember the whereabouts of something as small as a key, then they were entering the fight at a complete disadvantage.

"Doesn't matter," Daisy said. "If anything's locked, we improvise."

"You mean shoot it," Martin said.

Daisy shrugged. "Knives can be useful as well."

"Right...so, moving on to Artifact Storage?" Martin said. He grabbed Daisy's bag, prepared to play caddy should she need something from her one-woman arsenal. Daisy gestured for them to be quiet as she slowly opened the door, stepping out just enough to briefly observe the hallway and the assistant's bullpen. The lights were on, but there were no signs of life, people or otherwise. Jon expected the archives to feel dormant now that it's purpose had been fulfilled, but there was still a buzz of power flowing through the building. He felt connected to it, like he'd finally found a missing piece of himself he didn't know was lost. But he understood it's true nature: temptation from which there was no return.

Single file, they exited Jon's office. They weren't sure what to be on the lookout for. The Eye didn't exactly have legions to send their way. The only person they were certain to encounter was Elias. It was an inevitability and Jon had his bets on the Panopticon for that final showdown. For all of the menace and terror the Fears and their followers inflicted upon the world, they were just as prone to drama and theatricality.

They were almost at Artifacts Storage when Jon felt something other than the Eye's power, something wrong. There was chatter, a nattering hum that settled beneath his skin. His hand instinctively rubbed his arm until he felt the need to dig in and scratch his way to the bone. It was a familiar urge, one he hadn't experienced since Jane Prentiss and her worms. Looking down at his limbs riddled with scars, he was shocked to see he'd drawn blood without realizing it. 

"Martin...something's wr--"

The gunshots drowned out his words. Instinct made him push Martin up against the wall, hopefully out of the line of fire. Daisy went for the opposite wall, cursing that they were essentially out in the open without cover. No one had stepped into the hallway yet, so they were clearly firing a warning shot before they rounded the corner. 

Another shot echoed down the hallway.

"You come any closer and I'll make sure there isn't enough left of you to identify for burial!" shouted an all too familiar voice.

"B - Basira?!" Daisy called.

The silence stretched for longer then it should before she got a response.

"You've got some nerve using her voice!"

"It's us, Basira!" Jon shouted. "Not just Daisy! I'm here and so is Martin!"

Another stretch of silence.

"Jon?"

"Yes! Basira, we're here! Please don't shoot us!"

More silence.

"I'm comin' round the corner!"

"Good idea!"

"Something's not right," Daisy whispered. She lowered her weapon, but only enough to give the appearance of cooperation. 

"I'll say!" Martin agreed. They heard heavy footsteps approaching, slow but steady. Turning the corner, alive at the very least, was Basira Hussain. 

And she looked a mess. 

Her clothes were riddled with splotches of dirt and blood, torn where she'd needed material for bandages or slashed by something sharp and angry. She was still wearing her dark blue hijab, but it looked just as ruined as everything else she was wearing. Whatever skin was visible looked bruised or in some state of healing from cuts along her arms, hands, and face. Her eyes, though...her eyes looked wild, almost feral. There was an obvious tremor in her body, which made the hold on her gun all the more precarious as she leveled it at Daisy.

"Jon, who is--?"

"It's Dai--"

"Stop wearing her face!" Basira shouted.

"It's really Daisy, Basira!" Jon said. "We found her in Scotland."

"More like she found us," Martin corrected. 

"Yes, but the point is this isn't a trick, okay?" Jon said. He was aiming for calm, but Basira seemed intent on aiming for Daisy's head. For her part, Daisy kept her demeanor passive. Anything outwardly aggressive was asking for disaster and bullet holes for decoration. "This is really Daisy."

"You - you left me," Basira said, eyes locked on Daisy. "You gave into the Hunt and left me."

"I thought it was the only way," Daisy said, her voice low but soothing. "I'm sorry, Basira."

The gun shook in Basira's hand. "I tried - I tried to l-look for you but...there wasn't - there wasn't time. I needed more time!"

"I believe you. I'm here now and that's what's important," Daisy said.

"Are you though?" Basira asked, eyes narrowing. "Did Magnus send you? Another hallucination to get my guard down? I won't fall for it, Magnus! I saw through your tricks before! I'll do it again!"

"It's not a hallucination," Martin said. "We - we can see her too!"

Martin realized his logic was off the second Basira's renewed suspicion kicked in. "Then you can't be here, can you? I knew it. It's too convenient a story to be true. Wh-why would Daisy even wind up in Scotland? How is it possible she found you? Of all the people and places in Scotland, she just happened to find you two and here you are! The world has gone to hell and you've still managed to come back and bring Daisy with you?!"

They could all hear the edge in her voice. She was struggling to grasp the logic of their presence in the archives with the reality she'd observed outside the institute's doors. Jon couldn't blame her. None of what they'd gone through the last few months made any sense when you laid it all out. The same applied to the last few years. They'd all been struggling to understand how they fit into a world of monsters, avatars, and Entities. But where Jon had reconciled his expectations of natural order against the surrounding chaos, Basira made no such compromises. Her ability to think her way out had saved her from the Unknowing and she'd taken that strategy and made it her primary weapon. Unfortunately, logic and madness looked eerily similar given enough time and isolation.

Focusing his will and grabbing some of the power humming through the walls of the archives, Jon said, "**_Basira, who's in front of you? _**"

He felt the backlash of using the compulsion sting behind his eyes, but he also felt the urge to rake his nails across his arms again. His scars itched and the chattering grew in volume. He fought back the impulse, keeping his concentration on Basira. She needed to See and Jon was going to make damn sure she and Daisy got their proper reunion. She hesitated, her head tilting to one side like she was listening to someone whisper in her ear. It lasted for a few seconds, but he'd seen the shift and he knew Daisy had seen it as well. The firm hand gripping his arm from behind told him Martin was prepared for anything.

Then, Basira's trembling arm lowered and tears spilled down her cheeks in a quiet gasp. "Daisy?"

Daisy nodded. "I'm here, Basira."

They closed the distance between them and, after an awkward moment of holstering guns, wrapped their arms around each other. Jon and Martin saw the strength of their bond mirrored in the two women. Despite her misgivings, even Daisy was crying as she held on to Basira for dear life. Too caught up in the moment to care that something was wrong. They'd been separated for so long, under such dire circumstances, it was easy to understand why the brief reprieve was necessary.

"I-I don't understand. How are you here?" Basira asked. Jon chose to believe she was asking about the three of them, but he knew better. Before Daisy could answer, Basira pulled away, wiping her face. "Doesn't matter. You're here. All of you are here. Come on, I'm set up in Magnus's old office. We can talk there."

Daisy wiped her eyes and face, nodding. The guns were out again, but Jon didn't miss the look from Daisy to be cautious. He nodded, following Daisy with Martin just behind. Something was off and he could feel it in the air, in his teeth, and under his skin.

When they reached the Institute Director's office, he felt the hum beneath his skin shift to a sharp pain in his stomach just as the stench filled his nose. It was the smell of rot and decay matched with a potent sweetness that became clear when he saw the multitude of apple cores strewn about the room. Some appeared freshly eaten while others were brown and shriveled or dripping with liquefied decay. Basira walked among the filth like it wasn't there, moving books and statements off the couch in the corner as if there wasn't a pile of decomposing fruit collapsing below a swarm of flies. Without thinking, or noticing, Basira picked up one of the less spoiled apples and sank her teeth into the browning flesh. He heard Daisy and Martin protest, loudly, but his eye caught something worse. Something he'd been dreading since they set foot into the archives' corridors.

Worms. There were worms in the apple. His stomach clenched as another round of sharp pain stabbed him in the gut followed by the jarring urge to itch at his puckered scars. His hand moved instinctively and he saw Basira's do the same, their movements perfectly in sync.

"Basira...stop...worms..." Jon said, his voice labored with pain. He fell to his knees, cradling his stomach as it churned with fire and agony.

"Jon!" Martin said, kneeling beside him. "What - what's wrong? Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere," he hissed.

They were crawling, slithering, biting him from the inside. He could feel them growing, expanding, threatening to burst through at a moment's notice. But it wasn't him they were inside, it was Basira. He'd tapped into a connection of sorts, feeling the physical torment Basira barely showed on the outside. Did she even know she was in pain? Did she know what was happening to her? Had she blocked it out or was there a more sinister hand behind it? There was no more time to process it as another convulsion swept through his body. He could feel himself slipping, Martin's voice becoming a distant echo of panicked concern. He needed to maintain his focus for a little longer, he needed to help Basira See. He gathered more power from the Eye, knowing the punishment that awaited him, and pushed out the words.

"**_Basira...there are...worms...in the...apples_**," he said. He heard a hard gasp, Daisy shouting, and intense, jagged pain behind his eyes consumed his thoughts as he fell away into darkness.

***

_He was in the shop around the corner from the Institute. He was standing next to Basira as she bought her morning breakfast. Taking the little bag, he followed her out of the shop as she walked towards the Institute's front entrance. There were police vehicle still parked on the street, lights flashing as PCs entered and exited the building. _

They're headed into the tunnels again.

_She didn't say that. She was thinking it. _

Once they give up, when Jon and Martin come back, I'll find Daisy. She can't have gone too far. She likes to keep close to her old hunting ground. I'll start there, then move out. I just have to be patient. I can wait.

_She reached into the bag and pulled out an apple, biting into it with a loud CRUNCH._

_There was a shift in the world and now they were in Jon's office. Basira sat at his desk. She was on the phone talking to Martin during one of their check-ins. She was playing with the fountain pen he used to make notes on statements, doodling as she gave her update on what was happening around the Institute. _

Maybe another week. Another week and they can come back. Another week and I can go find her. She's probably moved on to different hunting grounds. More monsters to feed on. So many monsters in this damn city. Jon's a monster. Wonder if she'd actually kill him? He'll probably try to take her statement while she's eviscerating him. Growls and snarls. Statement begins.

_She reached over, picking up the apple she'd set aside for lunch, but there was a look of confusion on her face._

Did I buy this today? I thought I ate my apple at breakfast.

_There was static in the air. He felt it because she felt it even if it didn't register that it was happening._

Yeah, I must have bought a second apple for lunch. That's the only thing that makes sense.

_She bit into the apple._

** [CLICK. _My dreams are crawling and many-legged...They always sing that song of flesh.]_ **

_What was that? It sounded like - like Jane Prentiss. Her statement. Those were her words. He looked at Basira munching on the apple and he saw them. The worms. Jane's worms were in the apple.  
_

_Another shift in time and the world was wrong. A great eye opened within the clouds, and Basira could feel it scouring her mind. _

Magnus did something. Jon did something. Did I...what did I do? I don't remember. I sent them the statements. Everything was fine. I sent - I sent - I sent - I don't remember what I sent them. I stuffed the papers in. Didn't think. I didn't think and something's wrong. Why do I itch? Everything itches and the world is wrong. I need to find Daisy. I was supposed to look for Daisy but the world is wrong and I don't remember what I did. What did I do?

** [CLICK. _How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song.]_ **

[CLICK. I’ve always believed in the supernatural. Within reason. I mean.]

_That was_ his_ voice. The conversation he had with Martin during Prentiss's attack! What the hell was happening?_

_Another shift and Basira was hunting through Magnus's office, searching for something, muttering to herself the whole time. The office was wasn't as full of rotting apples, but Jon could see the piles beginning. The apples didn't look as old and withered yet. Basira continued to search, scratching violently at her arms and face and legs without understanding why. Blood was soaking through her clothes as the wounds went unattended._

There has to be something here. Something I can use to fight them. They keep looking for Jon, but he's not here! None of them are here. They left me. They all left me and now I have to clean up their messes. Daisy left me. She left me. I said I'd find her but she left me first. Another monster in a world of monsters. She left me. She left me. How do I find her? I should go find her but they keep coming and looking for Jon! Should just send them all to Scotland and see how they like it. No Basira to protect you, Archivist. No Detective to sort out your problems. I've got problems of my own but I can't do anything because you're not here. Because you left me. You and Martin...Melanie...Daisy...you're all gone and the world is wrong.

** [CLICK. _The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the hive is infinite. An unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh.]_ **

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin! Because when I record these statements it feels... it feels like I’m being watched. I... I lose myself a bit.]

_Time stopped mattering. It was just a jumble of Basira's thoughts, one after the other between the CRUNCH after CRUNCH of apples and the sound of wriggling worms.  
_

I need to find Daisy. Where could she have gone. Did she even care that she left me? She left me! She left me and I'm scared. I'm scared. I'll never see her again. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared and the world is wrong.

** [CLICK. _I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note it’s every detail but you can never understand it.]_ **

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin!]

_CRUNCH!_

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin!]

_CRUNCH!_

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin!]

Daisy, where are you? I'm so scared. I can't escape. They keep singing and crawling and I'm itching so bad and I'm scared. I'm so scared. Please find me. Please save me.

** [CLICK. _The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.]_ **

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin!]

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin!]

[CLICK. Because I’m scared, Martin!]

[CLICK. Because I’m scared

Because I’m scared

Because I’m scared

I’m scared

I’m scared

I’m scared

scared

scared

scared]

***

He jolted forward, aware of the lingering pain in his stomach that wasn't his. He felt overheated, sweat dripping down his forehead, soaking into his shirt. He wasn't sure if he was crying until he felt Martin's soft fingers sweep the tears away as he held him close. He realized he was propped up against Martin on the floor, cradled in his arm among the filth and sweet-smelling rot permeating the air. Martin went from worried to relieved in a matter of seconds. Jon wanted to join him in that relief, but the sobs burst without warning, hot tears refreshing the cooling rivulets down his cheeks and spilling on to Martin's jeans. He felt strong arms around him, his shield against the storm trying his damnedest to protect him. It was warm and safe in Martin's arms and he wanted to stay there forever.

"What happened, Jon?" Martin asked. "You - you both collapsed after you...compelled Basira."

"She - she was so scared, Martin," Jon said between gasps of air and renewed tears. "She was so scared."

"Basira?"

"And Jane...and me..." Jon said.

"I don't understand," Martin said. "Jane Prentiss?"

"Help me up," Jon said. Martin did so, keeping a hand on Jon's back as he sat up and away from the comfort of Martin's arms. He immediately saw Basira stretched out on the couch. The apples had been pushed as far away as possible, swept into the corner to become the Institute's first compost pile. Daisy knelt by Basira's side, whispering into her ear as Basira's body shook feverishly. Jon gingerly sat on the couch near Basira's feet. "Can I have my bag?"

"Sure," Martin said. Jon's duffel was light compared to Daisy's, but there was a different kind of weight about the items within. Setting it by Jon's side, the Archivist got to work searching through his bag of eldritch holding. He stopped abruptly, pulling the Dark beast's claw out with a comedic look of confusion.

"Did I...? Martin, did you pack this?" Jon asked.

"I didn't know you had it," Martin said. "_Why_ do you have it?"

"Trophy, I suppose," Jon muttered. He stuck the claw, practically the size of an average dagger, into his back pocket, covering it with his jacket. "First kill and all."

"We're going to have a very long discussion about what is and isn't a trophy, you and I," Martin said.

Jon snorted in agreement and resumed his search. The next item removed from the bag was the urn containing Jane Prentiss's ashes. Taking a deep breath, Jon opened the urn and set it down below Basira. Daisy eyed him warily, uncertain about his plan. Truth be told, Jon wasn't quite sure what he was doing. He just knew something had to be done. He felt another stab in his stomach just as Basira writhed in pain.

"The worms are inside her. I can - I can feel them...crawling inside. My scars...they itch. They've been itching since we got here," Jon said.

"How is that possible?" Daisy asked.

"I-I don't know. Maybe it's our...alignment with the Eye? We're connected," Jon said. "And I need to get those worms out of her before they make her into another Hive."

"And you need Prentiss's ashes for that?" Martin asked.

Jon gave a slight shrug. "Actually, I need a place to contain them. What place is safer than home?"

It sounded sick and cruel when he said it out loud, but there was just as much truth in the matter. The Corruption within Jane loved her in its own way and she returned that love regardless of the fear. It was how many of the Entities operated, love and fear working in tandem to drive those starved of the former into the vicious embrace of the latter. Jane Prentiss was scared when she gave her statement, she was scared when she tortured Martin and attacked the archives, and she was scared in her final moments as all people are when they meet their end. She wasn't scared for herself, not all the time. Mostly, she was scared for the worms and flies and spiders that called her home. The instinct to protect them was as natural as breathing and as their hive she embodied those Goddess-like aspects she'd initially dismissed in her statement. She'd been their home, their temple, and she loved them. What child didn't want the safety and security of their mother's affection?

"Daisy, you might want to move. This - well it could get messy," Jon warned. Her only response was to raise her eyebrow skeptically, but Daisy complied. Martin sat behind Jon, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder and squeezing tightly in support. Jon touched his hand briefly, acknowledging his help in ways that words lacked. He reached out, grabbing hold of the connection between him and Basira. They hadn't always been on the best of terms, certainly not this year, but they were friends and he wasn't going to lose another friend to the Entities if he could help it.

He felt the worms biting, piercing, digging through flesh. Their movements were chaotic, but their constant motion and activity made for a beautiful song. He understood how one could be easily enthralled by its melody. Like the Slaughter, the Corruption was exceptionally skilled at warping the sublime into a grotesque mirror of itself. Pressing his other hand to his stomach, enhancing the connection the only way it made sense, Jon pushed with his mind. He left nothing to chance, gathering the attention of every worm, letting their song mingle with the pulse of his compulsion.

"**_Go. Home_**," he said. He gave them a direction, a way out that didn't involve eating their way through Basira's stomach. Instead, he pointed to the exit that had been their entrance.

Basira's eyes snapped open, her body spasming as she leaned over the couch and began to vomit. It was all worms and bile striking the floor. Jon could feel the pain lessening in his stomach as mind burned with the immediate retaliation of the Watcher. He let his mind split momentarily, one focusing on getting the worms out of Basira while the other blocked the Watcher from disrupting his concentration. The worms spilling from Basira's mouth weren't as large or as fast as the ones they'd dealt with in his first year as the Archivist. They were easy enough to direct to the open urn where they would be safe with their mother once again. The worms piled into the urn, bathing in the ashes of Jane Prentiss until they were too gunked up with carbon and slime to move ever again. When he finally felt the last of them escape Basira and enter the urn, he dropped his power and sank into Martin's waiting arms.

"Cover the...cover the urn," Jon said, breathlessly. His head was swimming from exerting himself and his vision was slightly blurred, but he clearly saw Daisy cover the urn before checking on Basira. Martin held him closer, lending his strength to Jon in whatever way he needed.

"You did it, love," Martin whispered. Jon smiled, leaning into his warmth for as long as he could make the minutes last.

***

There was a flowerbed by the Thames that was still thriving even under the Watcher's gaze. Jon stood by it, staring up at the sky and scowling at his patron and his enemy. When he felt satisfied enough with his moment of defiant glowering, he turned gentler eyes to Jane's urn.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Jane," he said. "I'm not sure if you really wanted help, but I'm sorry you were so scared. I'm sorry...that you died a pawn in a wicked man's game."

He opened the urn and poured the remaining ashes and dead worms into the soil. Maybe in death they could be part of something beautiful once again. It was the most anyone could hope for.

He turned back towards the Institute, but a sinister chuckle stopped him dead in his tracks. It sounded like the rumble of a raging fire spreading its merciless destruction. His hand ached at the memory, the scar tissue taut with anxiety. He turned towards the laughter because he had to be certain even if he knew who it was in the deep, sinking core of his stomach.

"Ms. - Ms. Perry," he said.

Jude Perry was ten feet away, her waxy skin sagging just enough to give her an off-putting appearance. She stepped closer, radiating heat and fury beneath her malicious grin.

"Hello, Archivist. I'm here to destroy your archives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 22 - Colony  
MAG 32 - Hive  
MAG 39 - Infestation  
MAG 158 - Panopticon


	11. The 10th Labor - Desolate the Archives

Of all the ways the day could have gone, Jon failed to entertain the scenario of sitting at his desk watching Jude Perry leisurely sipping tea as her eyes wandered around his office. She hadn't changed much since he'd last seen her save for the longer, bleached hair shaped into a tapered mohawk. She was wearing just enough clothes to not be considered indecent in public, though why she bothered adhering to such laws under the current eldritch administration was beyond his ability to speculate. Her skin, or the mottled wax that passed for skin, drooped around her eyes, nose, and mouth but somehow managed to enhance her vicious beauty. Her eyes remained a deep black that swirled with gold and elemental fury. She was, for all intents and purposes, a perfect candle.

It was hard to look at her for more than a minute before the heat grew beyond his endurance and his scarred hand tightened in pain. It was all in his head, he knew that, but the memory of their last meeting was literally burned into his psyche and skin. Having Martin standing by his side brought some relief, but there was no way to eradicate the hurt entirely. For his part, Martin was maintaining an unexpectedly calm demeanor. He'd never dealt with the Lightless Flame, but he'd learned enough from Jon to know Jude was not someone to mess with unless you were okay with third degree burns. That didn't stop him from delivering an intense glare of his own for the pain she'd caused Jon and her contribution to his marks and Jonah Magnus's plans.

"So Annabelle sent you to destroy the archives and you came? Why?" Martin asked. Jude finished her tea, setting the mug on the desk where they could see the now warped and cracked vessel.

"The Web made an excellent case for a reversal of the Eye's recent ascension," she said. "And any excuse to burn Gertrude Robinson's legacy to the ground is good enough for me."

"You're not happy with the new world order?" Jon asked. He made sure to keep any iota of compulsion out of his words. Jude's lesson in information gained without consent was the hardest to learn, but made the biggest impression. When she assessed that his question wasn't forcing her to speak, she gave a slight nod of approval.

"Does that surprise you, Archivist?" she asked.

"A little," Jon admitted. "I know the Eye's ritual succeeded, but all of you are free to do as you wish. No one's stopping you from fulfilling your services to the other Entities. You have all the power you could want to feed your god."

"Hmm. It's truly astonishing how little you actually see, Archivist," Jude said, her eyes narrowing with bubbling anger. "The Ceaseless Watcher is true to its name because no matter what I or any of the other avatars do to appease our gods it will always be siphoned off by the Beholder in the sky."

"Siphoned?" Martin said. "You mean the Eye is draining the fear out of your - your victims?"

Jude touched her nose and pointed to Martin, her finger leaving a dent in the wax nostril. "You're right that we're free to act, Archivist, but do not confuse that for power. Whatever I do, the Watcher sees it and takes it for itself, leaving me with meager offerings for the Desolation."

"Feed your god or it'll feed on you," Jon said, echoing Jude's warning to him from what seemed like forever ago.

"Precisely. And my god is starving," she said. "If something doesn't change - soon - then The End will have its fill of avatars."

"Does this mean that you're all working together?" Martin asked. "Like a truce among the other Entities and avatars?"

Jude considered his question, an impish grin developing that made Jon shudder at its familiarity. "For now...yes. If this endeavor succeeds, I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement in the aftermath."

Jon didn't believe it for a second. The flame of Jude's heart flickered capriciously. Any ideas of peace talks or deliberations on actual balance among the Fears would have to be taken with the smallest pinch of salt ever conceived. There was no altruism in what any of them were doing with the possible exception of Martin. This was about survival and, at the very least, Jon could respect that as motivation for anything.

There was a knock at the door, but Jon didn't bother telling Daisy and Basira to enter. It was a courtesy knock before the two walked in. Basira was looking better than she had a few hours ago. There was more color in her face despite looking about as exhausted as Jon felt. She'd changed into an identical set of Daisy's tactical athletic clothing, which Jon knew had been in Daisy's emergency trunk from the beginning. There was even an extra hijab that Basira had donned, completing the transformation into the Basira they all knew and loved.

"Can we talk...privately?" Daisy asked, glaring at Jude.

"Jude, would you mind stepping out for a minute?" Jon asked, still mindful of the compulsion.

There was a gleeful smile on Jude's face, but Jon couldn't pin down what it was for. "Of course. I'll just go survey this bountiful offering to the fire."

Daisy and Basira made sure to move out of her way as she passed, but Jude countered their movements with her own. There was a hiss from Daisy as she brushed by and a delighted giggle that echoed down the halls. Daisy slammed the door shut, rubbing at her exposed arm.

"All right?" Basira asked, concern etched into her face.

"Nothing that won't heal," Daisy said. She looked to Jon, nodding that she was fine when she saw the panicked glaze of his eyes. He was wringing his hands, pulling on the scarred one out of sympathy, memory, or both. Martin gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, moving down to gently pull his hands apart. Jon smiled apologetically, but returned Daisy's nod as he relaxed back into his chair.

"How're you feeling, Basira?" Martin asked.

"Better," she said. She kept her head low, eyes staring at the floor in a way that was so very unlike Basira. The confidence that she carried herself with was gone, replaced by weariness and humiliation. She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to form the words she needed to say but unable to bring them together in a way that was satisfactory. She stalled for five minutes before speaking again. "I wanted to apologize."

"For what?" Jon asked. He wasn't trying to goad her. He was genuinely curious as to what Basira felt she needed to apologize for. Basira, thankfully, understood the intention behind the question.

"For...a lot of things. Daisy told me what you've been through. What all of you have been through, but, Jon...I'm sorry for my part in this. I helped Magnus win," she said, choking out the last few words.

"You couldn't have known," Jon said, his voice soft and understanding. "There was so much going on. None of us knew how this was going to play out."

Basira shook her head rapidly. "I should have been better prepared. I should've been more careful. If I'd just paid attention, I might have--"

"He was going to get to me, one way or another," Jon said. "I've never doubted your vigilance, Basira, but Magnus played you like he played all of us. Martin and I got too comfortable, too domestic, and you...he made sure you were too occupied to notice what was happening."

She looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes shining with unshed tears. "Why're you so - so forgiving? All I've done is...threaten you for the past six months and now..."

"Quite frankly, Basira, counting Jude, this building is more than fifty percent filled with people who've threatened to kill me," he said. It wasn't a great joke, but it did the work of getting Basira, and even Daisy, to chuckle. Jon smiled sadly, remembering his journey through Basira's psyche. "You're scared. You were scared, you are scared, and you'll continue to be scared. I know because so am I and fear makes us say and do things we regret. You saw me when I was searching for Gertrude's killer. The worm attack was too fresh and I focused so much of that fear and anxiety into my actions. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't regret how I handled things, how I pushed people away when I should have trusted them. But, put into perspective, that's exactly what Magnus wanted."

"You did what you thought was right," Daisy said, taking her hand. "The same as any of us."

Basira nodded. She wasn't entirely there, it would take time for her to forgive herself, but Jon was determined to give her the time she needed to heal once they fixed the world. When it seemed like she'd composed herself enough to stand tall and proud, Jon knew they could move on to the next topic of conversation.

"Jude is here, under advisement from Annabelle Cane, to destroy the archives and, likely, the entire Magnus Institute," he explained. He took a deep breath. "I think we should let her."

"I doubt we could stop her," Daisy said.

"It's the best course of action. The archives is the Eye's seat of power. I can feel it - in the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everywhere," he said. "If we bring it down, it will take another century or two for the Watcher to recover and rebuild."

"What about you?" Martin asked. "The statements, Jon...if all of them burn at the same time...what will that do to you?"

"I honestly don't know," Jon said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. "I doubt it will be pleasant."

"You think?!" Martin exclaimed. Everyone flinched at the sudden, barely contained anger rolling off Martin's tongue. "You - you told me what happened when you burnt Gerard Keay's page. It hurt you. A single page! And I saw how it hurt Elias even if he tried to hide it while he tortured me!"

"It's our best chance of cutting the Eye down before we get to the Panopticon!" Jon countered. "Magnus will be there, but he'll also be feeling the loss of the statements. That's the best advantage we have right now!"

"You being in a constant state of pain isn't an advantage, Jon!" Martin yelled. "He's older than you, more experienced. He barely showed how much pain he was in when I dealt with him. You'll still be facing him from a position of weakness."

"That's how I've been facing this entire ordeal, Martin! From the day I set foot into this building, I've been operating from a position of weakness," he said. "But I'm still here. Despite it all, I'm still here and if burning the whole place down is what needs to be done, then I'm going to make damn sure no one else has the same disadvantages I did."

"It was Gertrude's plan from the beginning," Basira said. "She died preparing to destroy the place. Might've done it, too, if Elias hadn't figured it out."

"So let's finish what she started," Daisy said. Martin shook his head, rubbing his face with a shaky hand.

"I - I need some air," he said. Jon tried to grasp his hand, but Martin pulled away, leaving the office without another word. Jon watched him go. He looked lost, uncertain about what to do. It was a familiar look to Basira and Daisy. He'd worn it for almost an entire year while he worried and puzzled over Martin's alignment with Peter Lukas. Jon could be a brusquely assertive person on the best of days, but when it came to Martin, especially after the Unknowing, he was directionless if not in the other man's orbit.

"Sims," Daisy said, interrupting his no doubt self-defeating thoughts, "give him a few minutes and then go talk to him. Basira and I will keep watch on the firebug."

Jon nodded. "Y-yes. Yes, thank you."

They exited the office to give him some space, the sad image of a disoriented man left behind to ponder his next move.

***

There weren't that many places Martin could go to clear his head. Jon didn't have to use his abilities to figure that out. Given Martin's desire for privacy and probably security, Jon reasoned he'd wandered over to Documents Storage. The room had been his home for months while they dealt with Jane Prentiss and, for the most part, it had protected them until Tim smashed through the weakened walls and led them into the tunnels. Simpler times.

Sure enough, there he was, sitting on the cot Jon had been sleeping on during the last year of seclusion. His pillow and blanket, and most of Jon's important belongings along with several changes of clothes, were still there. Martin's head hung low, hands resting on the back of his neck as he tried to massage the ache from his body. There was some sniffling, but no puddle of tears to be seen on the floor. Jon tapped the open doorway with his foot, his hands occupied with holding the two extremely hot mugs of tea. Martin's head shot up, eyes bright and watery. He took in the image of Jon and his peace offering, nodding his approval for Jon to enter.

"Just sugar in this. There was milk in the refrigerator, but I didn't want to risk it," Jon explained, handing a mug to Martin. He hesitated when it came to sitting down. Did Martin want him close or should he sit on the floor opposite him and move in closer when he wasn't so angry and sad?

"Jon, sit down," Martin said, patting the space next to him on the cot. He did, wrapping his long fingers around the scalding mug. They sat in silence for a while, drinking tea and letting their thoughts drift. It would have been companionable if not for the argument lingering in their body language. Neither was sure how much time passed before Martin let out a long, heavy sigh. He put his hand out where Jon could see it, palm up, and waited. Jon understood what was happening, but decided a different strategy was in order.

Placing his mug on the floor, he took Martin's hand and began to trace the lines of his palm in long, delicate strokes, over and over. He followed the paths like a fortune-teller reading the past, present, and future, though what he saw in those wrinkles and crevices was anybody's guess. Then he massaged the hand until he felt the stiffness in the muscles ebb, letting the knuckles pop like champagne corks. Then he raised the hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle with shy reverence before kissing the relaxed palm. He didn't dare look at Martin the entire time, afraid his poor attempt at an apology would be rejected despite never once feeling Martin pull away. For the finale, he guided the hand to his cheek, holding it in place as he leaned into the touch. He felt Martin's fingers take control, pressing in enough to let him know his hand wouldn't drop. Jon finally looked up, gasping at the sight of tears streaming down Martin's cheeks and the trembling smile on his lips.

Martin quickly set his mug down and pulled Jon towards him, mouths pressed together as tears and breath mingled in the sudden moment of need.

"I'm sorry," Martin whispered between kisses. "I'm sorry."

Jon pulled back, confused, but still framing Martin's face in his hands. "What? Why?"

"I...I know we have to destroy this place," Martin said. "But - Christ, Jon - I can't stand to see you in so much pain. I - I put you here. It's on me that this is happening again and I--"

"We were always headed here, Martin," Jon said, his thumbs gently wandering along Martin's cheekbones. "You heard Annabelle. This was the contingency plan and pain was an inevitability. There's no avoiding it. Not before and not now."

"You didn't deserve so much, Jon. Even the worst person in the world shouldn't have to endure what you have," Martin said.

"Maybe, but I think - I think I'm glad to have gone through it. I think...what I've experienced, all the fear and terror, have made me kinder, more empathetic," he said. He looked into Martin's soft, sad eyes. "It made me capable of seeing what I'd dismissed and ignored for so long."

"You've always been worthy of love, Jon," Martin said. "At least, you always have to me."

"I know," Jon said, "but I needed to know I was worthy. I needed to be able to reciprocate. And it took being blown up for that to happen."

Martin chuckled and Jon was glad for it. "You just can't do anything half-assed, can you?"

"Why start now?"

Martin pressed their foreheads together, breathing in the scent that was so thoroughly Jon: ink and paper, amber, aged leather and chopped wood. "When this is over, I'm going to make sure you sleep on the fluffiest bed and sink into the softest pillows and blankets in all the land."

Jon chuckled. "My knight in comfy armor -- AHHHH!"

"JON?!!"

He pulled away, hands grasping his head as pain ripped through his mind. It spiked and shattered, tearing through him from every direction, pulling and twisting until the statement was dragged to the surface and torn asunder without mercy. In the span of several agonizing seconds the statement of Alexander Scaplehorn, the Trophy Room taxidermist, was gone. Another pause and the name no longer held meaning or context, just a shadow in his mind that itched to be revealed. The pain lessened, but didn't disappear. He felt Martin's strong arms keeping him upright as he swayed into him in the aftermath of the statement's destruction.

"I think...Jude is...getting impatient," he said, breathing heavily into Martin's chest.

"You can do this, Jon," Martin said, burying his face in Jon's hair. "You can do this."

"I have you," Jon whispered. "I can do anything."

***

Jude Perry was glowing with excitement at Jon's pain riddled face when he and Martin entered the office. Daisy and Basira stood on either side of her, both sporting new burns from Jude's preferred method of self defense. Martin was tempted to fill a bucket with as much ice water as possible and dump it on the candlestick just to see her flame fizzle out. Would it kill her? Probably not, but Martin wasn't in the right head space for rational punishment.

"Didn't realize what she was doing until we smelt the burning paper," Daisy explained. "You alright?"

"I'll be fine," Jon said as he sat in his chair. Giving himself a moment to settle, he looked at Jude with his own version of murderous intent, but it only fed her delighted need for destruction. "We've decided to accept your help, Ms. Perry."

"Have you now?" she asked, eyes dancing eagerly. He nodded. "Excellent. I only have one condition."

"You already agreed to this with Annabelle!" Martin exclaimed. "Now you have conditions?"

"This is personal, foggy bottom," she said, heat rippling with renewed vigor. The wax drooped just a little further. "I'll do as agreed upon with the Web...if I get to kiss the Archivist."

Silence filled the room as sure as Jude Perry had sucked all of the air out with her single condition. Jon's hand was clear enough evidence of what Jude's kiss could potentially do, but Jon, Basira, and Martin knew what a kiss from the Lightless Flame could do to a person. Agnes Montague had kissed poor Jack Barnabas, sending the young man to the hospital with unsightly burns and blisters on his face. Without his ability to heal, Jon was certain to carry that pain to the end of this mission. There was no hospital to tend to him and no more spiders to stitch him back together. They were out of options and Jude likely knew it.

"Fine," Jon said. Jude pushed off from her chair, the scorch marks visible on the varnished wood. She approached like a cat on the prowl, a hunter excitedly stalking its prey but content to play with it before devouring her meal. Martin, Basira, and Daisy moved in closer, but Jon waved them off. They couldn't protect him from this, not if they wanted to cut off some of the Eye's power. Jude's smile was all teeth, wax dripping as she salivated over her new plaything.

He felt the searing inferno before she was close to his skin. Every inch brought another wave of heat and the anticipation of what was to come when she placed her lips on his. He remembered how his skin bubbled and boiled beneath her grip. He'd tried to pull away, but she clamped down, savoring his screams until she was satisfied with his pain filled whimpers. He tried to imagine it was someone else approaching, tried to disassociate from his body as the flame-tongued lips advanced. She leaned down, hovering by his ear, down his cheek, over his lips and then...

A quick peck, like a sunburn left unattended. He gasped at the momentary blister and she smiled. Moving back towards his ear, she whispered, "I do love it when you _squirm_, Archivist."

She walked away, making for the door as Martin swooped down to check Jon over.

"Where're you going?" Daisy called.

"I've got loads of explosives, incendiary devices, and Molotov cocktail makings in my car. Gimme ten minutes and this temple will burn with righteous glory!" she exclaimed. Her laughter echoed yet again, but Jon was too relieved to care about Jude's happiness. He let Martin fuss until he was satisfied that his lips hadn't been burned off.

"Glad someone's having a good time," Basira said.

"That's really what this adventure's been about," Martin said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"Still good, Sims?" Daisy asked.

Jon nodded. "Better than I expected, really. Now we just have to - have to think about our approach to the Panopticon. We'll have to navigate the maze and that could take some time."

"Not if we have a map," Basira said.

"We don't have a map," Martin said. "Peter had it and...I don't know what happened to it after we got to the Panopticon. It might've been with him in the Lonely."

Basira walked around Jon's desk, opened the top left drawer and pulled out the map Helen Richardson had drawn. The ink looked fresh, the blood even fresher. "Found it in the tunnels while the police were trying to navigate to the center. Figured it was Lukas's, though I don't know how it got there."

"Yeah," Jon breathed, "that's not ominous at all."

"There are so many traps we're walking into," Martin said.

"Maybe, but what else are we going to do?" Daisy asked.

No one had an acceptable answer.

***

Half an hour later and Jude was ready to begin her magnum opus to the Desolation. She would finally receive the closure - and revenge - she'd so desperately desired after Agnes's death. Jon found himself smiling at the thought of at least someone getting what they wanted out of their hellish journey. The four of them were packed and ready for whatever awaited them in the tunnels, but he felt his nerves heightening as he waited for the statements to go up in flames. Would he even make it far enough to be useful? Was he leading them all to certain death on the off chance that Jonah Magnus or Elias Bouchard would be slightly inconvenienced by the desolation of the Magnus Institute? He wouldn't know until it happened, but the fear and anxiety left him shaking with adrenaline.

"Ready?" Martin asked.

Jon nodded, taking his hand and squeezing harder than was normal for a person trying to be reassuring. Martin understood. Martin always understood. Basira also had the key to the tunnel entrance, which made sense given her occupation of the archives for the last two months. They followed her to the hatch door when Jon felt that itch in his ear again. It didn't stay in his ear, though. It began to spread, extending it's spindly legs as it skittered down his side until he felt something tug at his body, a thread pulling insistently at his fingers and arm, directing him to his bag.

He let go of Martin's hand and dropped to the floor, digging into his duffel. The threads guided his hand through the small yet stuffed bag until his fingers made contact with the item. He pulled out the flat package sent by Annabelle Cane, the butcher paper crinkling loudly in the eerily silent room.

"Jon, what're you doing?" Martin asked.

"She said I'd know when to open this," Jon said, his voice hushed and distant. "Now's the time."

"Did Christmas come early?" Basira asked, unsure of what to make of the whole situation. "Did no one else get a present?"

Jon ignored her. He pulled at the bright red string, surprised when it fell away at the slightest tug. The butcher paper was just as flimsy in its wrapping, but as it fell away, Jon felt his body go numb at the item clutched in his hands. It was just as he remembered it: monochrome cover of white with scratchy black webs in the corners and in the center the carved, handwritten title _A Guest For Mr. Spider_. He turned it around and there was the eponymous Mr. Spider. Still upright on his back legs, the others splayed at odd angles; the abdomen still horrifically swollen, the bowler hat splashed in red still atop his head, and those eight eyes staring at him hungrily.

"Jon, is that--?"

He could barely hear Martin's voice over the buzz in his itching ear as he opened the book.

And then the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 47 - The New Door  
MAG 54 - Still Life  
MAG 67 - Burning Desire  
MAG 89 - Twice as Bright  
MAG 117 - Testament  
MAG 118 - The Masquerade  
MAG 158 - Panopticon


	12. The 11th Labor - Break the Spider's Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited and resubmitted because I wasn't as happy with the chapter upon a re-read.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

He could hear it, loud and booming, but he could feel it as well, vibrating beneath him, above him, traveling along his skin until it rattled and awakened his bones. He opened his eyes and saw only a white haze of fibers inches above his head, extending down to his feet.

No, not fiber.

Webbing. 

The fog of unconsciousness burned away as the memories returned. Annabelle had sent him into the archives with _A Guest for Mr. Spider _safely tucked away in his duffel, a trap ready to be sprung when the moment was right. He'd let her manipulate him again and now he was in the clutches of the one nightmare that had always been consistently his. He wanted to scream, in anger and in fear, but he bit his lip instead, drawing blood for his efforts. There wasn't time to scream. Screaming was sure to draw attention. He could freak out later. Now he had to focus on getting out and getting back to the others. He needed to get back to Martin.

Curious despite the fear, he brought his hand up to inspect the material surrounding his body and immediately felt resistance to the pull. His hand was stuck. Stretching his fingers, he could feel the strength of the adhesive, just enough give for him to rip his hand away like a bandage. The webbing stuck to his hand, leaving a numb sensation where it clung. He tapped his thumb and index fingers together - one, two, three times - and watched them stick together and tear apart. With each tap, the numbness lessened as the webbing lost its adhesive quality. If he was going to get out, it'd be slow going with paralysis of any and all parts of his body a probable outcome. He ripped his other hand away, letting the numbing sensation run its course.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

He froze, feeling the vibrations run along the webbing. Was Mr. Spider bringing more victims? What would he see once he tore through his prison? He didn't have time to overthink it.

He had to get out.

He had to find the others.

He had to fix the world.

Pushing against the webbing that encased him, he felt the numbness start to set in. Thankfully, his nails were just long enough to count for something as he clawed through the webbing, pushing his body forward, tearing it away from where his back was affixed. His clothes afforded him some protection, but anywhere skin was exposed began to lose feeling. He became very aware of the weight of his limbs as their strength was sapped away. Some loose strands brushed against his face and he acknowledged that there was very little of his left side that was under his control. He ignored it, converting all of his focus into the energy he needed to shred through the remaining webs.

There was a faint glow of light as he broke through, pushing as much of the webs away before his focus faded and his body lost mobility. He stayed upright out of sheer force of will, but the sound of his heavy breaths echoed unnervingly within the haunting silence of the...

He was in a cavern. It smelled old and musty, damp with water and blood. Stretching from one side to the other, crisscrossing like an Escher drawing, were giant webs that seemed to have no end as he willed his eyes to look up towards the infinite reach of the cavern's ceiling. He'd have laughed at the stereotype of a spider's lair, but even his lungs felt too heavy to do more than inhale and exhale. Instead, he could only ponder more questions he had no desire to pursue for answers.

How long had the Web been working within this lair? Decades? Centuries? Millennia?

How many victims, how many children, had wandered into this death trap over the years?

Would the world have been spared this apocalyptic nightmare if Mr. Spider had pulled him through the door?

He realized his connection to the Eye was muffled. It was still there, tickling the back of his mind, but like the tunnels below the archives it felt distant, muted. Jude must have started her vengeful conflagration by now, though he had no way of telling how much time had passed between opening the book and waking up in Mr. Spider's lair. It could have been days. Maybe he'd missed the whole cacophony of destruction she was sure to create. That could explain why he didn't feel the loss of the statements, or the physical pain that followed as a byproduct. Doubt set in, bitter and oppressive. He was never that lucky. Wherever he was, when he got back to the archives he knew he was in for a world of misery.

In good news, though, he could feel his face again. His fingers began to move under his power and his arms weren't far off from following suit. Tipping his head forward, he could see the cavern floor, so he was likely on the first level of this tower of death nets. Nothing between him and the ground except a ten foot drop. Because that wasn't going to hurt at all now that he couldn't heal.

Repositioning himself, he felt the claw in his back pocket. A weapon not worth confiscating, which told him where he stood as a level of threat. He could use it to cut himself free, maybe soften the landing if he could cut the webs right. There was also the lighter...it was in his shirt pocket. He didn't remember putting it there, so how...?

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

He saw something move out of the corner of his eye. It was human-sized, tall but slow, jerking out of his field of vision. A shadow passed over him, but he didn't dare look up. Then he felt the web dip as something stepped forward.

No, not something. Someone. 

_"Looks like the little Einstein's finally come to reap what he's sowed,"_ said the hollow, haunting voice of a young man he hadn't seen in over twenty years. He didn't dare try to address him by name. There was nothing to recall and he felt hot tears welling up at his ineptitude. The young man was owed the dignity of a name and Jon couldn't provide one. All the power to Know and See, even in a limited capacity, and one name never came to him - wouldn't come to him. However long he managed to live, this would be his greatest shame.

Jonathan Sims's first victim.

The nameless hero pulled into the clutches of a spider, paving the way for the Eye's ascension and the Archivist's downfall.

_"That's a first. Couldn't get you to shut up before. Now, you're speechless,"_ teased the echo of lungs that sounded unused and congested.

"Please," Jon whispered, "I don't - I don't understand why or how you're still here, but...I need to get out of this place. I have to find my friends. Please, help me."

_"Like you helped me?"_ he asked.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

The cold shock was sudden and painful. "I-I was a child. Y-you-you were twice my-my size. I couldn't have stopped you if I wanted to!"

_"Did you tell anyone about me?"_ he asked.

"I tried! No-no one b-believed me!" Jon stammered.

_"Did you look for me?" _he asked.

"Yes! I-I looked, but - but the door, the b-building, they were gone. I- I tried--!"

_"Do you even remember my face?"_ he asked.

The web shook as the young man approached. He looked the same as the last time he'd seen him. Burly, some bulk around the middle. Short cut, sandy blond hair, snubbed nose, and brown eyes sparked with cruelty. His pale skin was paler still, an unnatural color hovering between white and grey no living human could sustain. His movements were shaky, uncoordinated; the body gesticulating as if it didn't understand its own physicality. An arm would jerk wildly while a leg would drag and suddenly catch up to compensate. The eyes never blinked together, always separately and at varying intervals.

It was the smile, though, that made Jon shudder.

The corners of his mouth were pulled up into an approximation of a smile, the skin stretched and struggling to maintain the expression. When he passed through a small shaft of light, Jon saw the filaments tugging from above. Many more were attached to his face and joints, every muscle strung up to be manipulated. And like the idiot that he was and always would be, Jon looked up to see who was pulling the strings.

The long, spindly legs covered in fine black hairs were familiar. He'd spent the better part of his life trying to forget the moment those legs stole his childhood bully beyond the door. The spider itself, Mr. Spider, was as nightmarish as anything a child could conceive if given the opportunity to describe their greatest fear to an adult. The body was giant, bulbous and wet from what Jon could only guess was a recent feeding. There was no red hat upon its head, but there was a red marking in the same vein as a black widow. It was a deep scarlet - a threat, a warning - like a brushstroke of blood. The eight eyes were small, but focused entirely on Jon; the mandibles clicking hungrily. If it was possible for a giant spider to show emotions, then Mr. Spider was brimming with joy.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

_"I'm so glad you could finally join me for dinner, Archivist,"_ said Mr. Spider through his puppet. He found himself looking at the young man instead of the spider. He wasn't easier to look at, not by a long shot, but if he looked up at the giant spider any longer he knew the fear would eat him alive. _"But you were quite rude before, so how shall that slight be rectified?"_

'Manners maketh the man,' his grandmother told him. She'd always been stuffy and insistent when it came to formalities and social graces. From the moment he arrived in her house as a permanent resident, he was made away of the myriad rules governing his existence under her supervision. He remembered the occasional slap of his hand from her when he violated those rules, especially around guests.

"Please, I-I'm sorry for my - for my rudeness, but I have to find my friends. _Please_," Jon said. It was pointless to plead with a creature so old and indifferent to humanity, but he didn't know what to do. He was well and truly trapped within Mr. Spider's domain. Words and etiquette were the only tools at his disposal.

_"Oh, but they're already here,"_ the puppet said.

"What?!"

_"You brought them to me when you opened the book,"_ he said.

"No, I didn't...I would never--"

_"But you did, Archivist. Just like Mr. Bluebottle brought me a cake. Just like Mrs. Fruit brought me flowers. Just like Mr. Horse brought me his son. Just like the little Archivist brought me my most treasured puppet," _Mr. Spider recapped. _"You've brought me three delicacies. Three instruments of merrymaking."_

The words and etiquette plan was gone as suddenly as it had formed. There was only one plan now: escape. "Where are you keeping them?"

The puppet twitched, throwing a swift arm in what was probably a pointing gesture. _"They are just below, preserved in my webs."_

Jon chanced a look to the floor again in the direction the puppet pointed. As he said, there were three web sacks stuck within the rock face. Next to them were their bags, all of them piled up without thought or care given to the weaponry they contained. The lighter was still in his front pocket, the claw at his back. If he could get free of the web, if he could get to the others, then maybe they had a shot at getting out alive.

_"Such a bountiful feast awaits!" _the puppet exclaimed. Jon's eyes shot up to the young man as Mr. Spider tugged his facial muscles again. He pulled too hard, though, exposing the yellowish-brown teeth and rotted gums in a grotesque mask of delight.

"Please...I...no, I - there must be something I - I...!" It was all too much to take in, too much to process. The panic attack was building, but there was no time for it now. Deep calm breaths. _In and out, Jon. In and out._ The words filled his mind, but they came to him in Martin's voice. It helped drive away the nausea and lightheadedness, but the initial panic remained. He needed to think. He needed another plan. He looked up desperately at Mr. Spider, but the creature circled his puppet around Jon in an agitated, jerking gait.

_"I wonder how they'll taste,"_ the puppet pondered. _"This one was bitter in my mouth, but satisfying nonetheless."_

He had to calm down. He had to focus. _Breathe, Jon_, Martin would say. _Breathe_. He tried to school his face, but Mr. Spider already knew they were important to him. It was just a matter of gauging _how_ important and which would hurt the most to watch die by the spider's many hands. He had to keep his focus clear and act like a good guest while Mr. Spider explained the party game. Etiquette could still work even as a distraction.

"I can't imagine they'll taste that good," Jon said, his voice shaking. If he talked it gave him more time to think, more time to plan. He wished, wholeheartedly, that Basira was awake. She'd already have a plan, one that was fully formed and executed before Jon could string two sentences together. "The world's gone rather wrong as of late. Everyone's running on adrenaline and I hear that's not good for meat."

_"Come now, Archivist, **you** know how fear tastes. The flavor differs, certainly, but it's always exquisite for such discerning palates as **ours**,"_ said Mr. Spider. _"The Mother promised my exile would be worth the wait, but even **I **didn't realize how hungry I was until you knocked on my door again." _

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

"Exile? What...? I don't understand," Jon said.

_"After I'd had my fill of this one, the Mother came to me and promised a greater reward if she could keep hold of my book," _Mr. Spider explained. The puppet flung its head back, the eyes not quite looking up into the elevated tunnel of intricate webs. _"My larder was plentiful then. I had enough to last quite a while, I thought. Then again, hunger makes us act in ways we never imagined. Doesn't it, Archivist? Yes...hunger and boredom will rot you from within...if you're not careful."_

"How - how long were you in exile, Mr. - Mr. Spider?" Jon asked.

The puppet's face couldn't make the expression the spider wanted. Instead, it ran the gamut of tugs and pulls into expressions of madness and horror. The eyes were wide, the mouth even wider. _"Nearly three decades I've gone without fresh food and only my puppets for entertainment. I almost forgot the taste and smell of blood until you touched my book again. It was like sunshine after the rain." _

"Almost thirty...damn..." Jon whispered. The plan was too perfect, too neat, but exactly what he'd excepted from the Web, from Annabelle. She'd admitted to watching him, keeping him safe, but to go this far to secure his place in their machinations...he felt sick, his stomach churning as the reality of it all settled in his mind.

_"And your offerings smelled so tantalizing. One was a rush of wind and fur, a thrilling chase through the woods. Another was knowledge and a persistent desire for logic, a ferocious need for the world to make sense,"_ he said. There was a pause as the puppet, for all intents and purposes, watched him. _"The last, though, he was soft. So much knowledge...but so lonely. I think his meat will be the most succulent."_

Jon curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest in a pantomime of pain at the thought of losing Martin. It wasn't entirely an act, the nausea of the latest revelations was very real, but it gave him the cover to grab the lighter from his front pocket. The puppet moved in closer, his arms swinging dangerously as if they'd lost all function. Mr. Spider couldn't quite make him look curious, but he seemed content with Jon's cringe when the smell of rotting, yet preserved flesh invaded his senses.

"No. Please, don't," he whispered.

_"You left this one to his fate. You got away. You lived. Now, you're going to sit at my table and watch me devour those you care for. Bit by bit, I will reward you for your survival until there is nothing left of you but a husk of flesh begging to be hollowed out and led around by strings."_

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

Jon felt tears spill over, running down his cheeks and into his shirt collar, his teeth grinding in anger as he gripped the lighter harder. There was nothing he could do for the young man who'd inadvertently saved his life, but he wasn't going to let Daisy, Basira, and Martin meet the same fate. They would live and he was going to make sure of that. Starting with Mr. Spider and his unfortunate puppet.

"No," Jon whispered.

_"What was that, little Einstein?"_ the puppet asked, their faces inches apart.

"I. Said. No!" Jon cried. With the practiced motion of a serial smoker, Jon knocked the lighter's top open and snapped the wheel.

A flame larger than even he was expecting erupted in the puppet's face, burning through the filaments attached to the facial muscles almost instantly. Jon gave the puppet a hard shove and brought his hand down to set the web alight. The effect was immediate: the webbing curled away as it was consumed by fire. Jon had only a second to factor in Mr. Spider's thunderous roar and the quickly disappearing net beneath him before he grabbed some of the remaining web and swung down as it fell away from the wall.

He landed with a thud, sliding into dirt and gravel that quickly brought the Buried to mind. Spitting out grit and a little blood, he felt his left arm going numb from grabbing hold of the web. Looking up, the flames were rising as the network of silk ignited and turned to ash. He heard more thudding sounds as the carefully wrapped bodies of past meals fell to the floor. One by one, bones and flesh in varying stages of decay smacked into the ground. He saw the one with whom he was most familiar land only a few feet away, his neck snapping unceremoniously over the rocks. The eyes were still open and they were staring right at Jon. He wasn't capable of accusation anymore, but Jon could see the fear permanently preserved from his final moments of life.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

Jon scrambled to his feet. He could feel Mr. Spider following the fiery path above in an attempt to save his dwindling collection. The rocks trembled as the giant body flung itself from side to side. The less secure stalactites fell, shooting into the already wrecked bodies, though one missed Jon by a whisker. There was no mouth or vocal chords to speak, but he could still hear Mr. Spider's savage cries. He ran over to the bags. He needed a weapon, something to take the spider out for good. He needed...

The book. The book was still in his bag. Finding his duffel, he pulled out _A Guest for Mr. Spider _and threw it to the floor. The impact opened the stiff pages, showing the menacing grin of the scratchy illustrated Mr. Spider. An inky sludge oozed out, as if the book was aware it was in danger. Jon snapped the wheel of the lighter again, holding it above the book. The ground shook as Mr. Spider landed, his long and spindly legs bringing him closer by the second.

_"You'll never be rid of me, Archivist! I marked you first! I made you what you are!"_ Mr. Spider bellowed.

"Then I hope I'm a great disappointment," Jon said. He spared a glance at the young man one last time.

_I'm sorry_, Jon thought.

He dropped the lighter on to the book and a geyser of wildfire shot upwards into the now barren tunnel above before settling back into a relatively manageable bonfire. The force of it knocked Jon back but through the fire he saw Mr. Spider fall, smoke and flame billowing from within his body as the pages were reduced to carbon embers. The legs jerked, twisting and shriveling in on themselves until Mr. Spider was a shell of ashes.

He felt a sharp tug at his chest just before the lighter, wrapped in its own inferno, sputtered and exploded over the remnants of the book. The pyrotechnic flash of color and light gave him a fleeting glimpse of the fine threads extending not just from the book, but from the lighter, into his body before they snapped out of existence. The shock of it sent Jon forward, his left arm finally working enough to help catch himself on the ground. A weight had been lifted, one he didn't know he'd been carrying. More tears flowed through heavy gulps and gasps of air, sobs broken up by bursts of laughter.

His first mark. Gone. The Mother of Puppets, the Web, set him on his course, led him down the path, and now he'd been released; his purpose fulfilled. The journey wasn't over, but he appreciated the sentiment even if the means of obtaining this aspect of freedom was as harrowing as his previous encounters with the other Entities. Why Annabelle couldn't write down _burn this Web-connected book with this Web-connected lighter_ would remain a mystery, but some mysteries didn't need to be solved.

He was grateful for that lesson.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

The sound jolted him out of his contemplative state, reminding him of another task that needed doing. Getting to his feet, he staggered over to the remaining web sacks attached at the horizon where the wall and ground met. Remembering the paralyzing effects, he grabbed a pair of gloves from Daisy's bag and, using the claw from the Dark beast, he sliced through the first sack. It was Basira, still and serene. He pulled as much of the webbing away, reducing the amount that could potentially touch her skin.

"Basira, wake up," Jon said. He shook her gently before giving her cheeks a light tap. Her nose crinkled with annoyance, but it seemed to do the trick. Her eyes opened, blearily staring up at Jon.

"What...?"

"Spiders," Jon said by way of explanation.

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Watch the webbing. Minor paralysis," he said before moving on to the next web sack. Slicing it open, he pushed them away from Daisy just as he did for Basira. He went in for the shake and tap approach, but his arm was stopped by Daisy's firm grip.

"I'm up, Sims," she said, a wry grin forming.

He smiled back. "Mind the webs. Basira's coming."

That left Martin in the last one. One quick slicing motion and there he was, soft but solid and a sight for sore eyes. He let out a trembling sigh, aware that he was on the verge of crying yet again. Jon checked for any signs of the Lonely creeping about, but there was no fog or biting chill to be found. He looked to Basira and Daisy. They were checking each other over, assuring themselves that they were both okay. Instead of shaking and taping Martin awake, Jon decided on employing the proper fairy tale method of returning someone to consciousness. He leaned over Martin and kissed him, fingers gently tangling in Martin's curls. A few seconds passed before he felt Martin kissing him back, warm hands cupping his cheeks. When Jon pulled back, Martin was looking at him with dreamy eyes and a content smile.

"Prince Charming, I presume?" Martin asked. The snort from Basira was loud and set them all laughing. Jon helped Martin to his feet and wrapped his arms around him in a tight hug once they were both standing. Martin returned it, resting his head in Jon's wavy hair.

"Do any of you remember what happened?" Jon asked. "How we got here?"

"Where here even is?" Martin added.

"You stopped just short of the tunnel entrance," Daisy started. "Pulled that package from Annabelle out."

"It was a book. The one you told me about. The one about the...spider," Martin said. His eyes slowly drifted over to the ashen corpse of the giant spider along with the bodies and bones strewn about the floor. He gulped audibly, tightening his hold on Jon.

"You opened it and...there were millions of them," Basira said. "Little spiders bursting from the book like they were just born. They covered us and it all went dark."

Daisy followed Martin's visual path. "I assume this is all your doing?"

"He wasn't a very good host," Jon said.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

The sound was louder, closer then it had been before. Jon jumped and out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of yellow. He let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Helen's door, the need to cry overwhelming him yet again. Martin gave him another tight squeeze, relief washing over him at the same time.

"I've never been so happy you made friends with a Spiral monster," Martin sighed. They gathered their bags. Jon stowed the claw in his back pocket again. Shouldering his duffel, he looked towards the nameless young man again. There was nothing left to do except move forward, but he deserved a last moment of consideration. Jon was aware how much of his life had been determined by dumb luck. Magnus had made a point of it in his statement, but looking at the young man solidified it in a way he hadn't anticipated. Any of the bodies lying on the floor might have been him, a child stolen away and forgotten. He couldn't say he lived as well as he could have, at least not in the last few years, but he was going to make the time he had left count.

He owed them that much.

"Jon? You okay?" Martin asked, his words laced with concern.

"Yeah. Sorry. Let's get out of here," he said, taking Martin's hand. Basira approached the door first, knocking twice in response to the previous knocks. The door opened, Helen's elongated fingers stretching through the cracks in the wood.

"Ah! There you are!" Helen exclaimed. "How was your time with Mr. Spider?"

"Not great," Basira said.

"He's dead now," Daisy added.

"Excellent!" Helen said. "I have a note for you, Archivist."

There was a piece of paper in Jon's face. It contained two short sentences written in Annabelle's flowing script.

_Three to go._

_Good luck._

_ \- Annabelle_

Jon crumpled the note and threw it into a heap of webbing. He'd be an idiot to think this was the last he'd ever have to deal with the Web. For now, they had a Panopticon to invade and an Apocalypse to end.

"Right, Let's go," Jon said.

They stepped through Helen's door and Jon felt his mind surge with fire and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all for a Deus Ex Helen for the win!
> 
> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 81 - A Guest For Mr. Spider


	13. The 12th Labor - Map the Spiral's Maze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's fan art! Go check out Cary Atherton's amazing art here: https://cary-atherton-art.tumblr.com/image/190813658495

Basira was a contradiction when it came to patience. Gathering evidence, research, anything that built up a case towards the end goal of an arrest or some arbitrary form of justice showed her to be the paragon of diligence. There was always an aura of calm about her in those early hours, days, weeks of an investigation. Once the case was built, however, there was no end to her restlessness. She'd pace, back and forth outside the police bullpen, her body vibrating with nervous energy.

Daisy often wondered if her unease was attached to the anticipation of closing the case or a personal fear that her research wasn't thorough enough to warrant further inquiry. Or, like many in their department, she struggled with finding the balance between restraint and urgency. Being a Sectioned officer meant that state of limbo was the rule rather then the exception. Daisy's best practices were of a different sort, at least, back in the day. She'd been more than happy to slip away while Basira fretted and mete out justice with as little mess to be cleaned up as possible. She never liked seeing Basira in such a state, so she took care of the problem in her own way. Personally, Limbo wasn't a place she ever wanted to be, more so after six months spent in the Buried. 

But that's what this felt like, Limbo. Helen had provided yet another escape, this time from a massive spider's cave, but the second she opened the next door, ushering them just outside the entrance of the tunnels, Jon dropped to his knees, crying out in pain. Jude Perry's calamitous inferno still raged above them, the roar of fire and destruction unmistakable, and Jon could barely speak beyond the deep-throated moans and the occasional plea for the pain to stop as his body contorted and writhed in response to his scorched mind. Martin held him close, playing the anchor he'd always been, but his face took on a pale wash of anxiety and helplessness. And with their supposed guide incapacitated, there was no venturing into the maze, but there was no means of escape now that the building above was literally on fire.

She noticed Basira had wandered further away from their little group, which oddly enough included a lingering Distortion, standing inches away from the tunnel entrance, staring into the unknown darkness. She'd been keeping vigil for nearly half an hour. Daisy made sure Martin was steady enough with Jon in his arms before standing next to Basira, giving the tunnels a hard look of her own.

"How's Jon?" Basira asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Not good. Can't focus. He's in too much pain," Daisy said. "Do you...feel it at all?"

"A little. 'S'like a dull headache. Not getting any worse, but not better either. You?"

"Nothing. Wasn't technically employed here long enough for it to stick."

"Martin?"

"More concerned about the Lonely. He's struggling to stay here even with Jon to look after."

"Then we'll need to get moving."

"We don't have a map."

"We have a partial map."

"A partial map and an archivist who's practically comatose. Going in there is a death sentence," Daisy said.

"Going anywhere is a death sentence," Basira countered. "Maybe we'll get lucky and Magnus will take pity on us while we're wandering in the dark. Could guide us to the Panopticon just to be smug about it."

"We can't risk it," Daisy said.

"We have to do something!" Basira exclaimed. She managed to keep the volume of her voice low, but Daisy looked back to check if Martin heard them. He was too lost in keeping Jon grounded to notice. Helen, however, tilted her head past her shoulders out of curiosity.

"Basira..."

"He doesn't get to win because we gave up."

"We're not giving up."

"Then what are we doing?"

Daisy took her hand, squeezing tightly in response. "We're making sure we have a fighting chance. If this is...if this is the end of it all, then I want--"

"Every available weapon," Basira finished. Daisy smiled sadly, shaking her head.

"No...I want to make sure...that I did something right. Something good," she confessed.

"Daisy..."

"I know there's no balancing what I've done - what I did - with this, but I need it to count for something," Daisy said. "And Jon got me this far. Despite everything, he brought me back, gave me more time...with you."

Basira squeezed her hand. "As fleeting as it is?"

"As fleeting as it is," Daisy repeated. "We all need this, Basira. Jon more than anyone."

Basira's eyes took on a determined gaze. She was quiet, thoughtful, but within seconds she nodded as if coming to a silent conclusion. "Right. I think I have an idea."

She kept hold of Daisy's hand, tugging her gently over to where Martin cradled Jon in his lap. A few steps in their direction and they felt the change in temperature, the cold chill just before the fog rolled in. The Archivist continued to writhe in Martin's arms, short, shallow breaths escaping while his eyes rolled around without focus. His face was a sheen of sweat, some of it pooling in the crook of his neck, soaking into his shirt. The grip he had on Martin's hand was limp, but given his physical state it was all he could manage. It wasn't far off from his condition after confronting the Slaughter. Once they were close enough to hear his distressed mumbling, there appeared to be more on Jon's mind than the statements burning above him.

"m-m'rtn," Jon whimpered, his fingers weakly digging into the fabric of Martin's shirt. "m-m'rtn - ssst-sstay..."

Martin was pale, pale and strikingly translucent if you looked at the right angle. He wasn't entirely there, his eyes staring into the distance, arms holding Jon only because he happened to be there. Daisy clasped his shoulder, a sigh of relief escaping when her hand didn't pass through. His eyes slowly met hers at the touch and she swallowed a gasp at how cloudy they'd become since she walked away. The Lonely was a fast actor when it wanted something of value. She didn't hide her concern well enough, but the lethargy in the young man's body showed how little he cared. Instead, he went through the motions of comforting Jon.

"_I'm here, Jon_," he said, though the emotion behind it fell flat. His voice echoed. "_I'm here._"

Jon hitched upward as a wave of pain rippled through his body. It surged him forward, eyes clear and focused on Martin. "**_Stay with me_.**"

The effect of the compulsion was immediate. Martin's body solidified, his eyes returning to their natural shade of vivid blue. He gasped, shuddering as the emotions the Lonely tried to suppress rushed to the surface. His arms pulled Jon in closer, tightening to the point of suffocating the smaller man. When he let up, Jon sagged against the familiar bulk, eyes wet with pain and relief.

"'M s'rry. 'M s'rry," he slurred, pressing his face into Martin's chest. Martin continued to soothe and calm him, cool hands warming quickly to allay his fears.

"It's okay, Jon. It's okay," he cooed, wiping at his nose and eyes. "It was...it was probably the only way to keep me here. I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry you had to do that."

"A-ap-apologies l-later--" Jon stammered.

"Solutions now," Basira finished. She knelt by Martin, making sure she was in Jon's line of sight. "Jon? You with me?"

His mouth twitched into a pained grin. "'M here."

"I think - I have an idea of how to help you. Relieve the pain a bit," she said.

He nodded. "O-okay."

"Just like that?"

The grin widened. "I tr's you."

Her determined look hardened under the weight of Jon's openness. He'd said it without hesitation and Basira wasn't sure she'd earned that level of trust, but she wasn't about to waste it with doubt. 

"Remember you told me that you kept the Knowledge behind a door in your mind? It was the only way to keep yourself from drowning," she said. Jon nodded, hissing when another flare of pain crossed his face. "I figure...all of us are employed by the Institute. All of us are connected with the Eye. What if - what if we shared the pain? Spread it out and give you some room to breathe."

"No-no, B-Basira, I-I cou--" Jon started.

"You can," Basira said. "I'm not asking for the whole lot. I'm asking for a share of the burden."

"Let us help you," Martin said. He was focused on Jon, carding his fingers through the Archivist's wavy hair, but Basira caught the affirmative nod. Martin was on board with what she wanted to do. Daisy was with her. There was no need to confirm what she already knew.

"No heroics, Jon," Daisy said. "No martyrs either."

Jon flinched, another statement ripped away. It seemed impossible, but he managed to sink further into Martin. He sighed, pressing into the shirt that smelled like home and safety, before staring purposefully at Basira with a determined gaze of his own. He nodded and Basira let out a deep breath she wasn't aware of holding in. This had to work. If it didn't, she wasn't sure what to do other than fling Jon over her shoulders and leg it through the maze until they died of starvation, exhaustion, or sheer incompetence. Daisy knelt by Basira, a half-formed circle around Jon still ensconced in Martin's arms. Helen remained in the periphery, her presence surrounding them like a kaleidoscopic shield. It was strangely comforting.

Basira took Jon's unoccupied hand and tried very hard not to react to how thin and fragile it felt. The man was skin and bones, swimming in clothes that two years ago would have fit him snugly. Somewhere along the way she'd lost sight of how Jon's new status quo affected him physically. She'd been so focused on the monstrosity that she forgot about the humanity that was clearly present in the man. Another slight she'd have to rectify if they made it out of this mission alive.

"Okay, everyone, imagine two doors in your mind," she instructed. "One door let's Jon in, the other will contain whatever flows through. Imagine the doors are open and when I give the word, you'll close them off. Jon, when you're ready..."

Even through the pain gliding along his mind, Jon could feel the doors open to him within Basira, Daisy, and Martin. He smiled at the unique shapes of their imaginations. Daisy's were industrial, no nonsense. Basira's were practical with a pop of iron filigree. Martin's were warm planks of wood with a little sign reading "Welcome" hung with obvious affection. His door was ravaged by time and abuse, cracked and weathered by the sheer force of will it took to keep it standing. Today, for the first time in a long time, he stopped pushing back and let the door burst open and watched the floodwaters rise before directing it towards the additional tributaries.

The weight of Jon's Knowledge was a jab to the face followed by a roundhouse to the gut. It was staggering how much Jon had to siphon off even with the statements burning away. Names and dates, fears and horrors, secrets and lies pushed through; an unyielding deluge of fragmented stories yet to be told locked away in a damaged archives of terror. As quickly as the water level rose, the fires above consumed them in their zealous haze of worship. The sudden loss and frayed edges of information brought their own pain, creating a vicious ebb and flow of the Eye's archival hoard.

There was no telling how long they spent in their closed circuit of misfortune, but Basira knew when she'd reached her level of tolerance. Using that as a signal, she squeezed Jon's hand. "That's enough, Jon. Close the doors."

It was like being wrenched back from the edge of a cliff. They were all winded, breathing like they'd forgotten how their bodies properly functioned. Daisy put a steadying hand on Basira's shoulder, leaning into her for the stability she provided. Basira kept a tight hold on Jon's hand and Jon squeezed back as he relaxed against Martin. He looked exhausted, but there was clarity in his eyes once again despite the lingering pain. Martin pressed his forehead to Jon's whispering in his ear words Basira chose not to hear, but blushed nonetheless.

"Alright, Jon?" she asked once Martin pulled back from his hushed sentiments. Jon nodded, pushing himself into a somewhat sitting position.

"Better," he said. He didn't look at Basira directly, but he was wringing his hands in a way that revealed his nervousness. When he did meet her eyes, there was gratitude and something akin to shyness. "Thank you, Basira. Daisy. Martin. I...just thank you."

Martin handed Jon a bottle of water and a protein bar from his bag. Truth be told, they all needed to sleep for a few days, but that kind of self-care was out of the question at this stage of the journey. The best they could hope for was a quick boost of energy and nutrients from the meager rations in their bags. Basira smiled. Moving her hand to his shoulder, she gave another tight squeeze. "Thank us by getting us to the Panopticon. My fists have a date with Magnus's entire body."

"Yes...we - we've only got a partial map," Jon said. "It's not even a logical map."

"You're saying you can't navigate it?" Daisy asked.

"Maybe? I didn't exactly get there on my own before...that was all Magnus," Jon explained.

"Even Peter needed the Leitner to move the tunnels around while we were here," Martin added.

"Then how are we--?" Basira started.

"Helen - I - Helen - I can help," said the Distortion. They all looked at the Spiral's avatar, a swirling dervish of color, shape, and impossibility. Only, now, she looked smaller, more compact. The colors were muted, the shapes restrained, and for the first time since she'd come to the archives to give her statement, she looked like Helen Richardson. Whatever humanity was left rose to the surface and Jon felt his eyes watering at the sight. A cavalcade of emotions crossed her face: confusion, sadness, worry, excitement, and fear.

"How?" Daisy asked. "Can you guide us?"

"No...but we - I - can help you finish the map," she said.

"You'll draw it, then?" Basira asked.

She shook her head, a flash of pain and color and frazzled curves striking her form. She was fighting off the Spiral's pull, blocking pieces of herself and what was left of Michael before she took his place. "I cannot put it to paper myself. I cannot describe it either. It is beyond description, forbidden and unknowable."

"But..." Jon encouraged. He knew where this was going and her reluctance renewed his hope in his own fight for humanity.

"I can show it to you, Arch - Jon. I can show you the maze, fill your mind with its corridors and tunnels, its twists and turns. You may draw it as we go," she said.

Martin's hold on Jon tightened again. "There has to be another way. Let - let me do it. Show me. Show anyone but Jon."

"I'm afraid the Archivist is the only one capable of processing the information I have to give," she said. "If any of you took on the task...you would certainly die. Even with Jon there's still a risk."

"Death, I presume?" Jon asked.

"Madness more likely," Helen responded. "Though death is still an option afterwards."

"Yes, well, can't imagine why I thought it'd get any easier," Jon sighed. Martin angled himself into a better sitting position to face Jon. He didn't look like he was in danger of falling into the Lonely again, but there was a distinct fire behind his eyes Jon rarely saw.

"You don't have to do this," Martin said. His voice was raw, strangled by the force of his emotions. "Please, Jon. This - this is too much. It's too much for one person."

"Martin..." Jon started.

Elongated and blunted fingers cupped Martin's chin, turning him towards a being who was something monstrous and fragile. Helen's sad, human eyes met Martin's. They knew so little of Helen before she was taken by Michael. Did she have a family? A partner? Children? Pets? Anyone who missed her? Jon knew that look, knew what tears threatened to spill over in such a state of mind. He'd experienced it many times brooding in his office, waiting and trusting in Martin's plans to help the Lonely and stop the Extinction. There was someone. There **had been** someone she longed for, someone she lost. The wisp of memory only served to show how much of herself she'd given over to the Spiral in her despair and resignation. There was no going back for any of them, but she seemed content to have regained some of Helen Richardson even if it was short lived.

"That's why he has you to anchor him," Helen said. It was hardly an answer or an explanation, but they all knew the way forward was riddled with pain and suffering. Maybe there was hope for survival, but the reality had settled over them long before the journey began. They'd always been on borrowed time. That they'd made it this far was a miracle, but more likely the machinations of a spider Entity who wished it so. How the story ended was anybody's guess, but it was foolish to think they could alter their course now when the path was clear and present.

"And what happens to you, Helen?" Martin asked. He couldn't ignore his empathic tendencies. Martin cared. Even the Lonely couldn't destroy the force of nature that was Martin Blackwood's ability to find sympathy for the darkest creatures.

"I don't know," she said, a thoughtful look crossing her face as it glitched between the human and Spiral visages. "But I will be very surprised, I'm sure."

"Right," Martin said.

"Suppose we should get this over and done," Jon said. He grabbed hold of Martin and kissed him senseless. It was all hands and mouths, sloppy and passionate. Basira looked awkwardly at Daisy in an attempt not to look at the two men making out like teenagers. They both blushed before Daisy reached out and brushed their fingers together. When the boys were done, they looked wrecked for very different reasons. Gasping for breath and staring at Jon with wide, lovesick eyes, Martin pressed their foreheads together again.

"You don't get to kiss me like that and die, Jon," Martin said. "I forbid it."

"That's what I'm counting on," Jon said. One more kiss, this one slow and languid. Daisy, showing her own impatience, coughed loudly to get their attention again.

"Can we get on with it?" Daisy said. She brought a pad of paper and pens, setting them next to Jon. Basira laid the unfinished map on the ground as well.

Jon looked at Daisy skeptically. "You packed a notepad and pens?"

She shrugged. "Figured you'd need to write something down at some point."

"Pretty good improvised weapons too," Basira added. "Had to go all _Bourne Identity_ a few times."

"That as well," Daisy agreed.

"Remind me to remind you to tell me those stories over drinks," Jon said. Daisy smiled, nodding.

"Are you ready, Jon?" Helen asked.

Jon sat up strait, laying out several sheets of paper next to the original map Helen had left behind years ago. Pen in hand, he looked to Martin. He was close enough to reach for just in case it all went wrong. Knowing their luck...at least he was there and he knew Martin would keep him anchored. He felt Helen's presence behind him. He let out a slight cough, clearing his throat, and nodded. Helen placed one hand below his chin, the blades of her fingers sharp but hovering just slightly away from his skin. She placed her other hand over his face, just above his eyes.

"Good luck, Archivist," she said before clamping her hands around his face, the knowledge and information sinking into his mind as her fingers breached the walls, doors, and flood. It was all pushed away, replaced by the maze.

He was in the center - the Panopticon - but there were no signs of Jonah Magnus, just the empty space of its position. He knew he could walk in any direction: up, down, horizontal, sideways, and it would all be true. The staggering amount of possibilities and impossibilities was overwhelming. Which way was right? Which path would lead them from where they started to their finish? He started walking until he realized he was upside down, following a path along the ceiling. He tried to fall upright, but the walls curved and circled with his steps. He walked back to the Panopticon, but there was no moving backwards without falling sideways. He was inside the walls while he was sinking into the floor. And with every step, every movement, the echoes of what happened in the tunnels played out like a compilation of scenes on a broken projector. He saw remnants of worms and unfinished rituals in tandem with Jurgen Leitner changing the tunnels and the Not-Them stalking Sasha. He saw a shadow of himself trying to navigate the endless warren cross paths with a weathered Gertrude Robinson putting her explosive plans into place. He saw Elias Bouchard, James Wright, and Jonah Magnus following in the shadows. Their eyes were hollow and bright. He could hear the tapes playing, the sudden and sharp click of the recorders. It was all folding in on itself, a mass of events and memories slicing through each other without purpose or consequence.

It all happened.

It was all happening.

It would continue to happen.

He needed a way through. He needed a path.

But it wasn't about the right path. He couldn't force his way through, making the path he wanted simply because he required the world to move around him. It wasn't about applying order to chaos. That was impossible. Nothing could be what it wasn't. A maze was a maze. It was meant to be impossible from the inside. There was no means of gaining perspective while he was lying on the ground.

So he stepped up.

He could see it all. The tunnels stretched and curved, twisting curls and tight springs from one end to the other. Dead ends met up with hidden entrances while traps led to unseen layers and levels of existence. He saw the slow and rapid movement of time change without provocation. Weeks could pass in minutes, years in a matter of days and all of it would be true and false. He tried to imagine how far the tunnels actually extended. How long and how far could a person conceivably walk the maze if they never ran into the myriad ways they could die between one step and one breath? But the horizon didn't accommodate that length. It was here and it existed and he could see where the path was, the one in a million means of travel. He'd found it and he was going to show the others and they were going to get to the Panopticon and they were going to beat Jonah Magnus and the Eye and they were going to win.

He started laughing. He couldn't stop laughing. Tears streamed down his face that was already slick with blood from Helen's hands.

He wasn't sitting up anymore. He'd fallen sideways into Martin's arms.

He was tired but he couldn't stop laughing.

There were dozens of pages marked in pen, drops of blood here and there. Basira was quickly trying to organize the pages, but there was no rhyme or reason to them. His shaky hand had produced nonsense and called it rational. He'd seen the very foundations below the archives and he'd given it form and shape. Michael and Helen were an identity. The maze was a thing and it existed. It had rules and limitations that could be altered, but it was still bound to something tangible - something real. It was bound to the pages on which he'd drawn.

Martin's arms wrapped around him. His anchor, his love, his everything. He could hear him whispering in his ear, the words of a poet trying to soothe the savagery of the monster in his arms. He welcomed it. The words made him feel human, like someone worthy of such beautiful language.

He stopped laughing when Basira and Daisy reached an agreement on how the scrawled pages worked together. They had a plan of action. They were ready. Jon gripped Martin's shirt, breathing heavily into the fabric that smelled like Scotland and three weeks of peace.

"Follow," Jon whispered and promptly passed out.

***

He vaguely remembered Martin lifting him and a frantic conversation between him, Basira, and Daisy. Then they were walking or maybe they were running? He couldn't tell. It all blended together as his mind wandered. The Institute and the archives were burning. He could feel the statements he'd kept hold of vanishing one by one. There was pain, so much pain. His mind, his body, even his soul felt like it was on fire. Did he have a soul? Had he traded that away when he came back from the dead? Did the Eye hold sway over that as well?

They were definitely running now. How long had they been running? Minutes? Hours? Days? Would they reach the center only to find the world was beyond saving? He could hear Basira shouting directions ahead. Daisy called out to confirm them from the rear. Martin must be in the middle by process of elimination. Where was he? Where was Jon? Was he at the beginning, the middle, or the end?

The ground changed. How could it change? It was dirt and then it was metal. Scaffolding. No railings and a long fall down.

In the space between breaths there was no pain. It vanished, washed away with the coming tide. He felt nothing except the quiet, a calm serenity that settled over his mind. The fire had been quenched and he could breathe again. He felt elated. He felt lighter than air. He was surrounded by love and light, the information dancing across his mind in an endless, beautiful stream of consciousness. It called to him. He was home. He was where he belonged, where he was always destined to return. He wanted nothing more than to surrender to it, disappear into the haze of Knowing. He felt soft hands caress his face and he leaned into the touch, waiting for Martin's poetry to wake him from this lovely dream.

He awakened to the Watcher's gaze upon him, staring down into the Panopticon. He couldn't see the owner of the hands framing his face, keeping his eyes locked with the Beholder, but the voice that willed its way into his mind was all too familiar.

"Hello, Jon. Hello, my archive of terror."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 47 - The New Door  
MAG 101 - Another Twist  
MAG 127 - Remains to be Seen  
MAG 158 - Panopticon


	14. The 13th Labor - Close the Eye

Jonah Magnus didn't mind waiting. He'd waited over 200 years to achieve his ruined world, his kingdom of fear. He could wait a little longer for his Archives and its companions to arrive at the Panopticon. That was the benefit of immortality, it gave you time and perspective. His partnership with Robert Smirke had been a disappointment, but there were lessons to be learned and theories to investigate. When he could no longer pursue those avenues within his original aging body, he found the perfect replacement in the newly established Magnus Institute's Assistant Director, the person most likely to succeed him when Jonah Magnus died. It wasn't until he'd become James Wright that his path for the Eye's ascension became clear. Unfortunately, he still had to deal with Gertrude Robinson.

But, again, he could wait.

And he did.

He waited and he watched.

Elias Bouchard was from a good family and a posh upbringing that he seemed determined to undermine with every inhale of marijuana he partook of before and after work, sometimes on his lunch break. He was affable, relatively competent as a researcher, and utterly alone in the world. Parents dead somewhere along the way, no siblings or nearby family, no real friend group to speak of outside of the occasional after work drinks, and no strong emotional ties to anyone in the way of a partner or children. That his eye color changed from slate-grey to a deep forest green went relatively unnoticed by the Institute's staff when he was named interim Director after James Wright's "death." Most people wouldn't have looked that closely.

Most people weren't Gertrude Robinson.

She was the only person who managed to get under his skin, so to speak. She was a nail that refused to be pressured by the hammer, fighting back with her stubborn insistence to remain human. It wouldn't have been too much of a problem to get around save for her persistence in living as well. With each ritual she prevented, each "Apocalypse" averted, she returned to the archives with more information and a determined glint in her eyes that he could not extract from her mind. It wasn't necessary, he could suss out her intentions without issue. There were plenty of researchers and assistants available to replace her, barring the ones she sacrificed herself, but he stuck by his most reliable strategy. He waited and watched and, eventually, Jonathan Sims walked through the Institute's doors looking for a job.

Gertrude's elimination was unsatisfying, in the end. All of the horrors she'd faced and it was a bullet that did her in. The bigger offense was he'd had to sully his - well Elias's - hands in the process. The same disgust entered his thoughts when he'd bashed Jurgen Leitner to death, but the hands-on approach was, in many ways, more effective. And Jon was such a delicious treat of fear and anxiety - no family, acerbic towards most people, and pre-marked by the Web. With each test given, each mark earned, Jonah knew it was just a matter of time before the world was his to rule in euphoric observation. Jon and any who fell into his orbit were easy enough to guide in the direction of his choosing. So many fears to exploit, so many emotions to manipulate.

All he had to do was wait. 

And now here they'd come, back to the Panopticon on a fool's errand to reverse what he'd made into being. It was laughable how ill-prepared they were to go up against the power and will of the Ceaseless Watcher. Still, he'd watched as Jon and Martin gathered their allies and faced their demons. They were an amusing piece of entertainment, plenty of drama and comedy to go around. He could see the appeal that piqued the curiosity of the Watcher when he made the deal with Martin. And with each encounter he saw Jon's power diminish along with his body's strength and energy. He was weak in his return to the archives, his body and mind wracked with pain and guilt. He would be easy to control with the right words and a gentle hand. He would be the last sacrifice the Eye would ever need to ensure its power - his power - remained everlasting.

Basira, Daisy, and Martin were removed with barely a thought. They collapsed as they scaled the last flight of stairs, each trapped in a nightmarish loop of their worst fears and memories. Jon had already passed out from his collusion with the Distortion. His body shook with pain rippling from the destructive force of Jude Perry's revenge, his face pinched and tight as more statements were forcibly removed. Looking above, he saw the Eye affix itself to the high ceiling of the Panopticon's tower. Jonah lifted Jon easily, setting him just next to the chair where his original body kept its silent vigil. Kneeling by his archives, he let the Watcher's power shroud them in the hypnotic hum of static and information. Slowly, the pained shivers stopped and Jon's face relaxed in the Eye's embrace. Better that he go willingly rather than fight the inevitable.

He was ready to be fed to his god.

"Hello, Jon. Hello, my archives of terror."

***

There was an eye, the Eye, staring down at him, but Jon could only smile. There was no more pain stabbing into his mind. There was only warmth and the gentle buzz of white noise filling his senses. Nothing existed beyond the barrier of static. It was difficult to think about what could be beyond the threshold of his psyche. It was difficult to think, to Know, to See. He felt disconnected, drifting away from his ravaged body towards the Eye.

It felt glorious.

There were no more scars pulling at his skin. His bones didn't ache. His stomach no longer growled with hunger pangs. He was free of it, just a single consciousness floating in the void of a tranquil sea. How easy it would be to slip beneath the water. It's what the Eye wanted. It called to him, a familiar song of curiosity and a thirst for knowledge. All he had to do was surrender to its enchanting melody. All he had to do was drown. 

"It's alright, Jon. You've done so well. Rest. Rest."

The voice. It sounded so familiar. It was everywhere, filling his ears, caressing the fading shape of his mind. But before he could apply any thought to recognizing it, the hum of static wrapped around him, rolling like gentle waves over river rocks.

"You've done everything you could. There are no more wars, no more battles. The fight is over. Rest, Jon. Open your mind and let the Eye take you."

Rest...he was so tired. The static was comforting, welcoming. It wanted him and he wanted so desperately to sleep and never dream again. He'd done everything possible, right? He'd fought so hard, survived more than anyone expected. It was better this way. It was better to slip away and give himself over to the Eye completely.

Wasn't that his purpose?

To serve his god?

**[CLICK. _Jon. Jon, I'm scared.]_  
**

_Martin?_

"Where did those...No, pay it no mind, Jon. You'll see Martin soon enough."

_Elias?_

"I'm here, Jon. You've done so well. You deserve to rest."

_Rest...I want to rest so badly. _

He felt the edges of his consciousness begin to scatter.

"Perfect."

**[CLICK. _I really loved you, you know_.]**

The Lonely. Was Martin in the Lonely? He'd - he'd saved him...didn't he? They'd gotten out...made it to Scotland...the statements...

"That's not for you to worry about. You've won, Jon. You've earned your freedom."

Freedom...No more pain. No more Entities. No more fear. It was done. Over.

**[CLICK. _Well, I mean it’s not too late, ya know. Unless the world ends._]**

_It already ended, Martin. I ended it. I spoke the words and brought the world to ruin. I'm still a monster. There's no coming back from that._

_I've come to the end of my story. There's nothing left of me to give. Just a ghost of a man barely holding on._

**[CLICK. _A ghost? Really?_]**

He felt the smile form, but reality set in.

**[CLICK. _Are you okay? You look awful._]**

_My body is weak, Martin. My mind is dissolving. I don't know if I have a soul anymore._

**[CLICK. _Just...just don't die, Jon._]**

He didn't want to die, but he was so tired. Four years of suffering. Four years of struggling, like Atlas, to hold the weight of every cosmic horror on his shoulders. Four years of being a pawn. He was so tired.

"Rest, Jon. Rest and let the Eye take you."

_Yes...it's time, isn't it?_

The static rose and he felt more of himself dissipating.

**[CLICK. _Jon doesn’t want that._]**

"It's alright, Jon. You're doing wonderfully. Soon you'll be nothing more than a burst of data and information. All of your memories, all of your experiences, everything that makes you Jonathan Sims will be consumed. Your last contribution to the Watcher. A fitting end, I would think."

**[CLICK. _I want to save Jon._]**

_Martin..._

"It's okay. Everything's alright. Just let go, Jon. Let go and lose yourself in the Eye's embrace. Let the Eye drink it all in."

_Let go, Jon...Let go of the Archivist. Let go of Jonathan Sims..._

_Let go..._

It would be so easy to fall, to lose himself.

So why did it feel wrong?

**[CLICK. _I _think _I still care that he hears my voice._]**

_Martin...Martin, where are you? Why can't I - Why can't I find you?_

**[CLICK. _I thought it - it might help him… find his way out._]**

_I can't See anything, Martin. I don't Know where I am. How can I find my way--?_

"That's enough, Jon. The fight is over."

_I've been fighting for so long..._

"You're weary and the world has asked so much of you."

_I'm so tired..._

The shroud pressed in closer, the Eye's power spooling around and around like an endless reel of magnetic tape.

"You're wasting away. What life is truly left for you?"

_I'm a monster...I feed off fear and trauma...I hurt people..._

The static increased, a whine building at the periphery of his senses.

"The world as you know it no longer exists. There's nothing to be done."

_I ruined the world..._

"The archives has served its purpose."

_An archive of terror..._

"You've earned your reward, Jon. It's time to rest. It's time to go home."

_Home..._

**[CLICK. ** _ **I'm sorry I left you.** _ **]**

_No...that's not - you never did..._

**[CLICK. _I...I was on my own. I was all on my own._]**

_Martin...  
_

The white noise increased. It pressed against him. It was no longer gentle. It sought to unravel him, tear him apart, as the tape wrapped tighter and tighter.

**[CLICK. _I...I was on my own. I was all on my own._]**

_No. Martin, no! You're not--_

Martin was home. Martin was home and the static was trying to take him away. It squeezed, the whine of corrupted tape increasing, filling his ears, covering his eyes, clogging his throat. It was trying to drown him, pull him under and destroy him.

He could feel the power rushing over him, through him. It was the Eye's power and he was an avatar of the Eye. It's power was his by right. If the Watcher wanted him so badly, then it was going to have to try harder. He closed whatever eyes he had in this liminal space and focused. He focused on the Eye. He focused on the flood of power attempting to smother him.

He focused on the sound of Martin's voice.

He grabbed hold of a whisper of energy, but the Eye tried to push him away.

Jon pushed back.

**[CLICK. _I...I was on my own. I was all on my own._]**

_Not anymore. Come on. Let's go home._

**[CLICK. _How?_]  
**

_Don't worry. I know the way..._

_I know the way._

_I Know the way._

***

The shroud was torn away, the force of power behind it knocking Jonah back. Jon stood, bolstered by the power of the Eye that he'd latched on to, that he'd been bathed in. His eyes were bright, glowing an inhuman green. Jonah could feel the buzz and smell the ozone radiating from the younger man. He flinched, but recovered. He could still salvage this.

"Jon...it's alright. I underestimated your stamina. It's quite--" Jonah's hand brushed against something familiar as he attempted to stand. It was a tape recorder. Looking around the platform, it was covered in tape recorders. "--quite remarkable."

All of the recorders clicked on. The tapes began to play, each a different statement, but all of them syncing up at the same moment.

"**_Recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist..._**"

The recorders all clicked off.

Jon looked at Jonah with rage burning in his eyes.

"**_It's over, Magnus_**," Jon said, the distortion heavy in his voice. The consequence of taking so much power at once. "**_Your ruined world comes to an end now_**."

"If you kill me, then the others will die as well," Jonah said. He hadn't meant to sound so fearful, but it was becoming very clear that his options were limited. He looked to Eye above them and saw that it could only watch. Whatever influence it might have had over Jon had no sway now. The Eye's avatar was acting independently of his patron - the last mote of will and resistance keeping the Eye at bay.

Jonah motioned to the lower platform. Jon stepped forward and saw the people he loved lying below. They were still trapped in their nightmares of memory. It didn't pacify the situation like he'd hoped. It only served to enrage Jon more. The Archivist stepped closer, his eyes raking over Jonah with such intensity the older man couldn't help but wince under their gaze. Jon gave a soft snort of disgust and a sly grin.

"**_Are you afraid, Jonah? _**" he asked, curiosity oozing from his words despite the distortion. There were no glib phrases, no witty rejoinders to fire back. This was about power, pure and simple, and Jonah knew - even with two hundred years of experience under his belt - that he had nothing to counter what Jon was wielding. Jon knew it as well and smiled to let Jonah perceive his knowledge. "**_Would you like to give a statement?_**"

The recorders clicked on.

"No - Jon --!"

"**_Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding his death at the hands of Jonathan Sims. Statement Begins and Ends_**."

From behind his back, Jon pulled the claw from the Dark beast and plunged it into the left eye of Jonah Magnus. He pulled it quickly with a sickly sploshing sound and plunged it immediately into the right eye. A quick pull away and it was embedded in the heart of Elias Bouchard's body. There was barely enough time for Jonah to react beyond the wretched sound of screaming reverberating through the Panopticon. Black ichor oozed from Magnus's eyes, mixing with blood and viscera. Where the claw had landed in his chest, black veins stretched across his dress shirt slightly faster than the blood gushing from the wound.

The screams stopped. The body of Elias Bouchard sank to the ground. The eyes of Jonah Magnus were now gaping holes weeping a gruesome black jelly. He was dead, really and truly dead. Jon didn't bother to savor the moment. He rushed over to the aging body of Jonah Magnus and plunged the claw straight into its heart. He didn't retrieve it. Instead, he knocked it in further, hammering the claw through the body like every vampire hunter he'd ever seen on television or in the movies. He could only hope that Daisy, Basira, and Martin survived the fallout of Magnus's true death. He had to hope. It was all he had left.

He looked up and stared into the Eye. One more task and he was done. One last statement to be made.

**[CLICK.]**

"**_You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right._**

** _Leave us in your wholeness._ **

** _Leave us in your inferiority._ **

** _Take all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies!_ **

** _Leave us._ **

** _I – CLOSE – THE DOOR!"_ **

There was a rush of wind and sound and fury.

The rest was silence.

***

It felt like the worst hangover he'd ever experienced, but Martin managed to open his eyes despite the pounding headache behind them. He'd been...dreaming? No, that wasn't right. It was a nightmare. He'd been at the home with his mother, desperately trying to talk to her, to soothe her like a son should be able to. She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him, not directly. She looked through him and spoke about him, but it was as if he wasn't in the room. She wouldn't stop talking about him and his father. The vitriolic words were endless. Even when he covered his ears he could still hear her clearly. His tears didn't deter the poison spilling from her mouth, it seemed to spur her on.

He was surrounded by fog.

There was no telling how long he'd sat in such a torturous state. All he knew was he'd been fighting against the echo of his mother's hatred and then there was silence and a thumping headache. He sat up and found Daisy and Basira near by, both of them stirring awake. They were on a metal scaffolding...the Panopticon. They were trying to stop Jonah Magnus. They'd navigated the maze beneath the archives. The archives were on fire. He'd been carrying...

Jon!

Martin rushed to his feet, taking the small flight of stairs two at a time. His boot stepped on the freshly dead body of Elias Bouchard. His eyes were gone, the sockets filled with thick, black ichor that was also gushing from his chest. He was surrounded by glitching tape recorders in varying stages of disrepair. Following the destruction, he saw the body of Jonah Magnus in his Watcher's throne. The claw from the Dark beast was stuck through the corpse, the same black ichor spreading across the decaying flesh. And on the other side of the chair...

Jonathan Sims lay on the scaffolding, his body relaxed as though sleeping. His eyes were closed, dried tear tracks on his face tinged with blood. Martin dropped to his knees, gathering Jon into his arms, pressing him close to his chest. He listened intently, but there was no heartbeat. He watched closely, but there was no intake or exhale of breath. He began to rock slowly, burying his face in Jon's hair. He took in the scent of amber and old books, tears spilling into lifeless hair and cooling skin.

He felt the pull of the Lonely. It wasn't as strong as it had been when the world had gone wrong, but he still felt it. Jon, his anchor, his love, his everything, was gone. There was no tether. There was nothing preventing him from vanishing into the fog forever. It would be so easy to escape, to follow Jon into oblivion. Except Jon wouldn't want that. Jon would ask him to stay. Jon would want him to keep going. He had to keep going. The world was hard and painful, but giving up was unacceptable. He would not disappear. He would not forget. He would honor Jon by living and enduring.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Daisy and Basira stood over him, their hardened eyes soft and wet with tears of their own. Martin didn't have anything left. He cradled Jon closer, unafraid to sob openly and loudly. He hoped his wails of grief seeped into the dirt, the foundations of the tunnels and what remained of the Institute above. He hoped anyone associated with the other Entities felt the force of his anguish and understood that this place, this desecrated temple of the Eye, was off limits.

"Martin...we need to go," Daisy said, gently.

"Please, Daisy, I can't...I can't," he sobbed.

"Take you time," Basira said. "Just...take your time."

He'd take eternity if he could.

An eternity with Jon.

Tears spilled over, renewed in their sorrow, as he cried in despair.

"JON!!!!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be questioning the order, but trust me that all will be revealed in the next chapter.
> 
> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 39 - Infestation  
MAG 40 - Human Remains  
MAG 78 - Distant Cousin  
MAG 79 - Hide and Seek  
MAG 80 - The Librarian  
MAG 102: Nesting Instinct  
MAG 117 - Testament  
MAG 134 - Time of Revelation  
MAG 149 - Concrete Jungle  
MAG 156 - Reflection  
MAG 158 - Panopticon  
MAG 159 - The Last  
MAG 160 - The Eye Opens


	15. The 14th Labor - Face The End

Someone was shuffling a deck of cards and it was really annoying. 

"Could you please st--?" Jon turned and found he was back in his office. He was sitting in his chair and across from him was a handsome, young black man in a finely tailored suit. He wore his hair in long, thick dreadlocks tied back loosely and Jon caught a glint of gold from the assortment of jewelry adorning his ears. He was shuffling the cards, over and over again. When Jon spoke he looked up and stared at him with pitch black eyes. He smiled warmly and stopped shuffling. Leaving the cards on the desk, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fob watch. 

"You made good time," he said. The voice was familiar. He'd heard it once before...when he was in a coma. It was the voice that pushed him over the edge, the one that brought him back from his endless dream of undeath.

"Oliver?" Jon asked. Oliver Banks nodded.

"Jon," he responded. 

"What are you...Why am I...?" He gave a frustrated groan. "What is going on?"

"Another request from the Mother on your behalf," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Seems you're making a habit of life or death choices."

"There are no more choices left to make," Jon said. He could feel the echo of his last words of defiance towards the Eye. He'd reversed the incantation, sending the Entities back to their original dimension of abstract horror. Then there was a roar of anguish and betrayal followed by darkness and quiet. And now he was here talking to a man who, for all intents and purposes, was the Grim Reaper. The choice was clear.

"That's where you're wrong," Oliver said. He pulled an envelope out of the pocket he'd fished out the fob watch. Removing the single piece of paper, he gently slid it across to Jon. 

"What's this?"

"A petition of approval."

"For what?"

"Your second resurrection." Jon's hands stilled, his body froze, the shock of it hitting him square in the gut. "The other avatars agreed that, upon the completion of removing the Eye from power, Jonathan Sims, also known as the Archivist, would be granted restoration of life. They also agreed to an embargo on harassment efforts, murder attempts, and general foul play against you and your person as well as any and all known persons of interest including, but not limited to, Martin Blackwood, Georgina "Georgie" Barker, Melanie King, Basira Hussain, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, and The Admiral. Should anyone else become a person of interest, i.e. pets, children, etc., their names may be added to the list. And, no, you may not add 'all of humanity' to the list. All terms set will be granted in perpetuity, provided the Archivist agrees to maintain balance among the Entities and - and I quote - 'Keep his sniveling little posh nose out of our business.' Do you agree to the terms?"

It took Jon almost a full minute to speak.

"I - I, uh, I don't understand," he stammered. "You all want me to live?"

"That's absolutely the wrong question to be asking," Oliver said. "The question is: Do _you _want you to live?"

A long and dreadful silence passed over them. 

Oliver raised a curious eyebrow. "Interesting..."

"I-I'm sorry, I can't - I don't...know?" Jon said.

He let out a shaky breath, running his fingers through his hair. To his surprise, there wasn't much hair to go through. It was shorter, styled like he'd worn it when he was a researcher. Looking down, his clothes weren't the baggy jeans, rumpled shirt, jacket, and deteriorating sneakers he'd worn on the final leg of his journey. He was in a well-fitting dress shirt, pressed trousers, and newly shined shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his unmarked, scarless fingers attached to his scarless hand. He felt along his face and there was nothing, just immaculate skin. It was the last image he'd had of himself before Jane Prentiss and her worms made him afraid to look in a mirror for the rest of his life.

It was the last time he'd been purely Jonathan Sims. No Archivist, no gods to feed, no moral dilemmas, no Apocalypse waiting in the wings.

Just Jon.

"I figured...I was done. This is it, right? Death. The End." Jon said.

"You and I both know there's a difference between The End and _the end_," Oliver said, pointedly. "The deal was to earn your freedom and there's plenty of wiggle room for what "freedom" means. Death was, of course, always on the table, but Life was never dismissed as an option. _You _chose not to entertain it as a viable outcome. And I understand, truly, I do. It didn't occur to you because, as it stands, those choices haven't panned out for the best. From my vantage point, however, you've been making that choice in particular the whole time."

"I have?"

"You've technically died loads of times in your, for lack of a better term, quest. The Beast, lightning strike, buried alive, bullet in your gut, letting the archives burn, etc. It all adds up," Oliver explained. "But in each of these trials, even the ones that didn't require an honest to goodness life or death choice, you came back. You _chose_ to stay. You _chose_ to live. Why?"

"Martin," Jon said without hesitation. Oliver smiled.

"Choice seems clear to me."

"If - if I go back...will I...will it still hurt?" Jon asked.

Oliver didn't dismiss the question. He sat in thought for a moment, considering how best to answer.

"Living hurts, Jon. That's just the way of it," he said. Jon gave a slight nod of agreement. "As for your physical and mental conditions...that's entirely up to you. I can't say how the Eye will exist within you, but if I know Annabelle, I'm sure there's something happening behind the scenes."

"That's - that's not exactly reassuring," Jon said, a nervous laugh escaping. 

Oliver shrugged. "Truth isn't always reassuring. It just is."

There was a knock at the door. Oliver checked his watch again.

"Late," he sighed, shaking his head. "Honestly, I'd've thought your employee orientation covered tardiness."

"What?" Jon asked with genuine confusion.

Oliver opened the door.

"Hey, Boss," said a voice that nearly drove Jon to tears. 

Tim Stoker stood in the doorway between Jon and whatever existed beyond his Office-in-Limbo. Like Jon, he didn't look like he had at the moment of his death. He was dressed in a manner that recalled their first year in the archives - comfortable, but loose, long sleeves, black jeans and boots. His auburn hair was longer, tied back, though a few strands had escaped. What really threw Jon was Tim's face. There was the familiar tanned hue, like he'd just returned from a summer holiday, but it was free of worm scars. There was also a liveliness in his russet colored eyes that he hadn't seen in years. Tim was smiling as well, like he was happy to see Jon. 

He was smiling and it was a beautiful sight to behold.

"Tim?" Jon said, the name catching in his throat. He was up and around his desk, arms wrapped around the taller man instantly.

He felt Tim's arms fold around him, his hand gently patting his back. "I take it you missed me, then?"

"You have no idea," Jon said, quietly.

"Think I do, actually."

"Ahem," Oliver said, clearing his throat. Jon pulled back, ending the hug with a shy, grateful smile. "Glad you could make it, Tim. Get lost, did you?"

"More or less. I just focused on your pretty face and sonorous voice to guide me here," Tim said, winking at Oliver. There was an unmistakable blush to his face. Only Tim Stoker could get away with flirting with an avatar of The End. 

"Well, I'll leave you two to...chat," he said.

"You're leaving?" Jon asked. He looked over at the deck of cards still sitting on his desk. "Aren't we...Aren't we supposed to play a -a game or something?"

"Why would we do that?" Oliver asked. He followed Jon's line of sight, letting out a low but deeply amused chuckle. "I see. Fortunately, for both of us, I'm not that type of avatar."

"Then why--?"

"Needed to do something while I was waiting for you to get here. Keeps my hands busy," Oliver explained. "Cards aren't really my game, though."

There was a pause before Tim shrugged and said, "I'll bite. What is your game?"

"Backgammon."

"Well, alright. Mystery solved. Well done us," Tim said. Oliver and Jon rolled their eyes, but Jon couldn't help the wave of joy that washed over him at Tim being Tim. Reaching into his pocket, yet again, Oliver produced a pen and handed it to Jon.

"Use this to sign the bottom of the petition...when you're ready," he instructed.

"You seem awfully confident about my choice," Jon said.

Oliver looked at him knowingly. "You're cautious, Jon. I respect that. But you're also the type who needs to be convinced of something he was already certain of."

He walked past Tim, out into the unknown space of life and death. Tim shut the door. He moved to sit in the chair Oliver had vacated, but Jon stopped him with a gentle touch to his arm. There were equal parts awe and disbelief in his eyes as he took in the fact that he felt a solid presence beneath his fingers. The hug hadn't registered in the moment, but now he could take the time to understand that he was seeing and hearing and touching Tim Stoker. He couldn't grasp the mechanics of it all; the logic of two dead people able to simulate a sensory experience on a dreamlike plane of existence. The tears welling up in his eyes were just as confusing, but he didn't care. He was just glad to have this moment.

"I really did..." Jon started, "miss you, that is."

"Missed you, too," Tim said. He clapped a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's okay, Jon."

"It isn't," Jon said. "It's not okay and it isn't fair. You - Why do I get another chance and you don't?"

Tim shrugged, musing to himself. "Luck? Mercury in retrograde? Existential mumbo-jumbo is the best I can describe it."

"It's not funny," Jon admonished. Tim had the decency to look sorry, but it was short-lived as his soft gaze hardened ever so slightly.

"Look, I...I know you don't think you deserve it, but you do," Tim said. "I got what I wanted, Jon. I got revenge for Danny and I got to go out with a literal bang. No regrets. Aside from blowing you up...mostly."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't get the chance to live beyond it same as me!" Jon protested. 

"I don't know what you want me to say, Jon," Tim said. "There's nothing I can do about it."

"And you're just fine with that?" Jon said, incredulously. "You spent the better part of two years blaming me for things that were beyond my control and now you're just fine with things the way they are?!"

"What're you gonna do, Jon? Convince Oliver to let me loose?" Tim challenged.

Jon bristled, "Maybe."

"And then what? Resurrect Sasha? Gerard Keay? Jurgen Leitner? Gertrude Robinson? Your family?" Tim's voice continued to escalate in volume. "And why stop there? Branch out of your personal bubble and think big. Hell, why don't you stop Death entirely? No one dies, ever, because Jonathan Sims doesn't want to feel guilty or sad anymore."

Jon deflated quickly, unable to sustain the anger when Tim was making a salient point. He slumped into his chair, staring at the petition. Tim sat opposite him, but the anger he'd directed at Jon was gone as well. 

"I'm tired," Jon confessed with a heavy sigh. 

"I know."

"I'd very much like to rest."

"But..."

"...Martin..."

"Hmmm...tough choice," Tim said, thoughtfully. He laid out his hands like a scale, tipping them up and down in opposition. "Eternal rest or the man you love. Congrats, by the way. I'm glad you finally got your head out of your ass long enough to notice him."

"You knew?" Jon asked.

"Not exactly subtle, our Martin," Tim said. "Though, when one is at _your_ level of obliviousness, I can see how you'd mistake pining for incompetence."

"I...I made so many mistakes with him," Jon said, his voice dripping with melancholy. "I treated all of you poorly, but Martin got the brunt of it. He de--"

"If you say, 'He deserves better,' then so help me, Jon, I will throttle you myself," Tim said. With an aggrieved huff, he pushed the petition closer to Jon. "Sign the damn thing and go kiss your boy."

"It's not - It _can't_ be that easy," Jon said, though the argumentative tone was weak. 

Tim's expression managed to soften further. "It can if you let it be."

He could feel his fingers fidgeting with the pen. It all seemed too good to be true. How was this the resolution? All of the pain and suffering he'd gone through and it just...worked out in his favor? Or was he, as usual, overthinking it? His physical body hadn't been in the best state when he'd slipped away. He'd always been a wreck when it came to his feelings of self-worth; equally so with his inability to connect with other people. And he had no way of knowing how the Eye would treat him in the post-Apocalypse. The only certainty was Martin.

_"JON!!"_

The anguished cry filled the office. It was distant, but clearly Martin's voice. Jon sprang to his feet, looking at Tim with confused, frightened eyes.

"What - Is he okay? Is he - is he hurt?" Jon asked. "How can I hear him?"

Even Tim looked unsure of how Martin's voice pierced the veil.

"No idea, Boss, but it seems there's only one way to find out."

The skeptical, paranoid portion of Jon's brain told him there was all possibility that Tim and Oliver were working together to push him towards their desired outcome. The impulsive, lovesick remaining grey matter, however, did a quick enough override that Jon was dotting the "i" in Sims before he realized he'd signed the document. Looking up, ready to reprimand Tim for conspiring against him, there was no sign of his former archival assistant - his friend. 

His vision began to blur as the world tilted. He fell back into his chair, limbs giving out as they weighed him down. He could feel himself falling and, for once, he wasn't afraid. He closed his eyes and thought of Martin. In the final moment before he slipped back into his aching body, he heard another echoing voice that wrapped him in comfort and peace.

"Don't fuck it up, Boss."

"I'll do my best," Jon whispered.

There was darkness and then...

***

There was a great, heaving gasp of air. Martin was too hollowed out, too overwhelmed with grief, that it took him a while to realize the gasp hadn't come from him. He felt his hand gently rise and fall. The hand that was resting over Jon's chest. Jon who was...breathing. Blinking back tears, Martin prayed, and hoped, that he wasn't hallucinating. It would be the cruelest joke of the universe to turn his pain into a dissociative episode. He didn't have the mental fortitude to deal with a dream-within-a-dream scenario. Not now.

Squaring his shoulders and bolstering his last shred of bravery, he looked down and knew, unequivocally, that the next gasp came from his own shocked lungs. 

Jon was breathing. He was breathing. Jon was breathing!

And with each breath, Martin could feel the soft, rhythmic beating of his heart.

"J-Jon?" Martin said, his voice hushed, barely above a whisper. He was afraid to speak too loudly for fear it might break the spell. Distrustful of one sense, Martin employed another as he pressed his ear to Jon's chest. He listened and he let a fresh pool of tears fall. Pulling away from the sweet, pulsing music, he shifted Jon in his arms, freeing a hand to card through Jon's hair that then cupped his cheek. He was warm. He was breathing. He was alive.

"Jon - Love, I - can you hear me?" Martin said, his voice louder, bolder in its certainty. Jon's brow furrowed, his eyes moving rapidly as if lost in a dream.

"M-mar'in...?" Jon mumbled and it was a symphony in a word. He heard the heavy footsteps of Daisy and Basira rushing over and coming to a halt a few feet away. They stayed silent, but he could feel their eyes on him.

"Yes, Jon, it's me. Can you - can you open your eyes for me?" Martin asked. He started stroking Jon's cheek, maintaining enough pressure to hopefully annoy Jon awake.

Slowly, and with great patience on Martin's part, Jon forced his heavy, exhausted eyes open. There was still a fine crust of dried tears and blood around the edges, but the familiar hazel eyes were there. It took a few rounds of blinking before awareness really kicked in, but, eventually, Jon's smile and watery eyes matched Martin's. He lifted a shaky hand to Martin's cheek, thumb padding along the outline of a face he knew as well as his own.

"Martin...I see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read an earlier piece I wrote, "Gone Kayaking," then you know I've plagiarized myself a bit. I don't care, the scenario still fits perfectly. 
> 
> That just leaves the Epilogue. The question is: Fluffy? Schmaltzy? Both?
> 
> Would people be interested in an Author's Commentary as well?
> 
> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 11 - Dreamer  
MAG 29 - Cheating Death  
MAG 104 - Sneak Preview  
MAG 119 - Stranger and Stranger  
MAG 121 - Far Away


	16. Epilogue - The Archivist Reborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I've been horrible at letting people know where I'm usually lurking on the internet.
> 
> I'm @darling_sammy on Twitter 
> 
> You can also visit my website, POP Archives at www.pop-archives.com, where I look at how archives and archivists (my real world profession) are depicted in pop culture. There's even a couple of Magnus Archives articles!

The first time he woke up in hospital he felt wrong. He could feel the stiff sheets and the thin blanket against his skin. He could hear the monitors signaling his life signs with a harsh, high-pitched tone. He could smell the sickening combination of antiseptic, bleach, and something floral. He couldn't see. He was too tired to open his eyes. But there was something in his throat. It was blocking his airway, preventing him from speaking. His mind went into panicked overdrive as he tried to fight against the blockage. Was it the Web? The Buried? The Corruption? Had they decided to renege on their petition already? He had to get out. He had to escape.

He had to find Martin.

The monitors blared in response to his distress and it was a cacophony of sounds, voices, and brief, but stern, touches that only aggravated and confused him more.

Then, at last, a familiar warmth taking his hand, stroking the palm and fingers gently, soothingly.

"It's alright, love. You're okay. It's just a breathing tube. I'm here. I'm right here," Martin said, his voice penetrating the confusion. Jon felt his whole body relax under the calming blanket of Martin's words. He was wrapped up in safety and comfort, his body feeling distant as he drifted to sleep again.

The last thing he heard before he sank into oblivion was the soft hum of Martin's voice in his ear, "It's okay to rest, Jon. I'm not going anywhere."

Jon believed him.

***

The next time he woke up it was a much less panicked affair. He gradually became aware of his senses in a similar manner and was glad to not feel anything stuck down his throat again. He was still tired, but there was more energy in his reserves this time around to help his eyes open without too much effort. Blinking away the blurriness, his first clear image of the room was of Martin slumped in the chair next to his bed. From what he could tell it looked to be about mid-afternoon outside and there was a book hanging precariously from the younger man's fingers near the edge of the chair. A riveting piece of work it must've been to hold Martin's attention so effectively.

"Mar--" he started, but a fit of coughs barged through instead. It was enough to jolt Martin awake, the book clamoring to the floor and instantly forgotten.

"Jon!" Martin exclaimed, happily. The joy on his face vanished when he realized the coughing jag had yet to stop. Standing over him, Martin helped Jon into a sitting position, propping him up with extra pillows that definitely weren't standard issue hospital furnishings. They were too comfortable, so they were probably on loan from Georgie and Melanie. He felt a glass of half-melted ice placed in his hand and let Martin guide it to his parched lips. It soothed his throat, which he now realized felt raw, almost burnt. Chewing the ice, despite Martin's disapproving look, Jon relaxed into the care being provided and, eventually, the coughing stopped.

"There we go," Martin said. He sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through Jon's hair. "Better?"

"Much," Jon said, his voice quiet and gravelly. He scowled at the sound but there was little to be done about it. Martin appeared delighted by his annoyance, if his slight chuckle was anything to go on, so he let it slide as far as priorities to instead ask, "How long was I...?

"About a week," Martin said. "Medically induced coma. Hence, the breathing tube from before."

"Really?" Jon said. He sounded more fascinated than upset.

"Yep. According to the doctors, you were malnourished, exhausted, concussed, anemic, at risk for kidney failure, liver failure, heart failure, pneumonia, stroke, and a bunch of other medical terms I can't begin to pronounce," he explained.

"That many?" Jon said, unfazed but still awestruck by the list.

"I think one or two of the nurses might've been here when you were in your last coma," Martin said, conspiratorially. "What they must think of you, Mr. Sims."

"Don't care much what _they_ think of me," Jon responded, his voice a bit stronger. "Just what _you_ think of me, Mr. Blackwood."

"Hmm, well, I think you're the most stubborn, persistent, stupidly amazing man I've ever met," Martin said. He'd tried to keep his tone light, but Jon heard the catch in his voice. There was no point in fighting it. Martin let the tears flow as he moved down to press his forehead to Jon's. "And I'm so very glad you came back to me. I love you, Jon."

"I love you, too."

***

It was another two weeks before he was released from medical care. During that time, he and Martin filled each other in on what happened between short visits from Daisy, Basira, Georgie, and Melanie. Jon tried to recall as much from his near-death, possible dream, meeting with Oliver and Tim as possible. There was plenty of skepticism on Martin's part towards the other avatars holding to such an agreement, so it was quite the surprise when copies of the signed petition were distributed to all parties involved. Jon nearly called the nurse in to take care of Martin when he remained silent for almost ten minutes after reading the very short paragraph of very powerful language. Then Martin kissed him senseless and all thoughts of alerting medical professionals faded away until his heart rate spiked and their make-out session was interrupted by panicked medical professionals.

The world at large was mostly back to normal. Any attempt to talk about or reference the three month long Apocalypse was met with scorn and ridicule. The world just wanted to move on and anyone who dared examine the real world significance of existing cosmic horrors was thoroughly shamed until the rising tide of public opinion washed them away. It was an impressive spin campaign only the Web could devise. Annabelle said they wanted the world as it was and the Web had come prepared to make it so.

The Magnus Institute and its archives were gone, burnt asunder supposedly by a researcher who'd "cracked under pressure" while defending their dissertation. It was vague enough to be plausible, but very few shed a tear over its destruction. Jon still wanted to visit the site and see for himself what was left of Jonah Magnus' legacy. Martin grunted his affirmative rather than commit to going back any time soon. And with the buildings gone, any and all investigations into persons known or unknown conveniently disappeared. That was all Daisy and Basira as far as Jon could tell.

There was no sign of Helen. She'd managed to make them a door to the hospital when Jon revived, but Martin mentioned it was taxing on her. The last thing she said, before closing her door, was "Farewell, Archivist." They hadn't seen a yellow door since. Jon hoped she was at peace, but given what he knew about the Entities there was no way of knowing Helen's true fate. Perhaps the Distortion had faded away, permanently. Or maybe, one day, they'd find a new door and a new personality to contend with. All they could do was wait.

The only unknown left to uncover was Jon's status as an avatar.

***

"Six letters across. Strips in geography class," Martin said.

Jon sighed, "Isthmi."

"Okay," Martin said, marking Jon's answer in the booklet. "Eight letters down. One charging a flat rate."

An even louder sigh. "Landlord."

"Nice," Martin said.

"Is it?" Jon asked. They'd convinced the nurses to let Martin bring sandwiches from outside the hospital to Jon's room. He'd come back with not only food but a bag containing multitudes of "tests" to experiment with. Jon had been happily snacking on some crisps when Martin pulled out a book of puzzles and began to evaluate Jon's ability to Know much to Jon's increasing consternation. 

"Would you rather try the cards?" Martin asked. Jon gave him a withering look. Now it was Martin's turn to look frustrated. "I've got a trivia book. Maybe you'd like to bet on some horses?"

"What would that possibly prove?"

"I don't know, but we have to test it somehow!" Martin said. His eyes widened with a sudden thought. "Compel me!"

"Martin!"

"Jon!"

"I'm not going to--"

"We need to figure--"

"Fine! Do fifty jumping jacks!"

There was a pause before they burst into laughter.

"Were you even trying?" Martin asked between gulps of air.

"I was, actually," Jon said. Martin pulled out a a small notebook, scribbling quickly. Jon gazed at him fondly. "What else do you have in that bag?"

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you tell me?"

He got another scowl, half-hearted this time, before Jon let out an acquiescent sigh. He looked at the bag and focused while Martin watched him closely. Nothing in the room changed. Everything felt as normal as it could. Then Jon looked to Martin and said, "A horoscope pamphlet, scratch lottery ticket, box of jelly beans, and the latest Harrison Campbell book - _Flights of Fancy, Hearts Aflame_."

Martin stared at him, taking a moment to do his own inventory. He scribbled on the notepad again and Jon felt a tingling sensation behind his ears as heat traveled up his neck.

"Martin...ahem, that's um - maybe when we get home, yeah?" he said, an unmistakable blush coloring his darker skin. Martin smiled triumphantly.

"Had to be sure you didn't already have a peek in the bag when I wasn't looking."

"When could that have happened?"

Martin shrugged. "Dunno. You're the tricky one. Not me."

A deep, contented laugh bubbled to the surface and Jon wanted nothing more than to go home and spend the rest of his days witnessing Martin be this silly because he could. They finally had the luxury of time without rituals or an Apocalypse hanging over their heads. He was looking forward to familiarizing himself with Martin all over again.

"By the way," Martin said, "are you hungry?"

"I'm pretty full...but I'll take a few jelly beans," Jon said.

"No," Martin said, tossing the box of candy on to the bed, "I mean are you _hungry _?"

"Oh! Um...no, I don't think so," Jon said. He hadn't thought about it since he woke up. It wasn't because he lacked any curiosity about how his existence as an avatar would continue. No, the hunger for statements had become so ubiquitous to his reality that it didn't seem worth his time to entertain its disappearance as a possibility. Thinking about it now, though, there was no point between waking up and the present that he'd felt the urge, the need, to take someone's statement. He didn't realize he was crying until Martin was perched on the bed, brushing the tears away. "Martin...I - I'm not hungry. I...I...I'm sorry, I don't know what to - to do - to say, I...Martin..."

"It's alright, Jon," Martin said, lovingly. "You don't have to do or say anything. You can...you can just be."

Jon fell forward into Martin's embrace, burying his face in his chest as they cried and laughed together in quiet celebration.

***

I wasn't all honey and roses, though Jon didn't expect it to be.

When he was finally released from the hospital, they returned to the flat Annabelle had gifted them. It was theirs now, his and Martin's, and it was properly furnished when they arrived. It was a home cobbled together with various items from their separate flats as well as items on loan from Georgie until they could go shopping. But it was home, nonetheless. Jon was just glad to put on clothes that were his, though he was shocked at how well they fit. His previous diet had left him mostly skin and bones, but even after three weeks under medical supervision he was able to see his weight gain for the blessing that it was. He still managed to steal Martin's jumpers when he could.

They were home for three days when the first nightmare happened.

_There was darkness, at first. It was normal. Sometimes he couldn't remember his dreams. Then there were flashes: blood, bones, dirt, and Jonah Magnus's laugh surrounding him. There were faces in his periphery, but he's couldn't grant them names. There was no recognition, but he Knew they were people who'd given statements to the archives. Now they were lost, voiceless and without a record of their existence because of him. He'd let them become sacrifices to the Lightless Flame for his own gain. Then there was an All-Seeing Eye staring down at him, the weight of its gaze pushing him down, down, down._

_"Jon! Jon - Jon, wake up!" Martin cried. He sounded so far away, but Jon grabbed hold of the tether and pulled himself forward._

He was already wrapped around Martin when he came to himself. He knew he was okay. He knew he was loved. That didn't stop the heaping sobs from escaping into the fabric of Martin's shirt as his hold tightened. Martin's soft, gentle voice filled the spaces in between heavy gulps of air with a string of placating phrases like "It's okay" and "You're okay" and "I love you" until he finally cried himself out and his breathing slowed to a normal pattern. Gradually, he loosened his hold around Martin's middle and sat up to meet blue eyes glassy with sympathetic tears.

"I'd hoped to avoid dreaming ever again," Jon confessed. Martin cupped his cheek, which he gladly leaned into.

"I'd take it from you, if I could," Martin said.

"I know," Jon said. He turned his focus to Martin, giving him a long, scrutinizing, yet still concerned look. "Have you...? Has the Lonely been...calling to you at all?"

"Honestly? No. Not since the Panopticon," Martin said. "I think - I think you've given me too much hope for the future. Too much love as well."

Jon pressed a kiss into the palm against his face. "Then I think a few nightmares are an acceptable consequence."

Martin didn't appear satisfied with Jon's assessment, but he let it slide, for now. Gathering Jon in his arms, they leaned back on the bed, but sleep eluded them. It was another half an hour of deep breaths and heavy sighs before Martin finally said, "I've got the latest _What the Ghost? _downloaded. Something about debunking amateur ghost hunters. Want to listen?"

"Sure," Jon said. "I think Georgie wants me on the show at some point. I don't know what we'd talk about."

"Really? All of your experiences and you can't think of one topic of conversation you could muster through on a podcast about the paranormal?" Martin asked, incredulously.

"I'd actually like to talk about literally anything else, at the moment," Jon sighed. The theme for _What the Ghost? _began to play through Martin's phone. "I think I need a hobby."

Martin chuckled, pulling him closer. "We'll get you one for Christmas."

They fell asleep to Melanie's lengthy rant about the lack of technological progress in ghost hunting equipment.

There were no more dreams that night.

***

Jon finally insisted on going to the remains of the Magnus Institute. It took three days and several date night promises before he could convince Martin to accompany him. Not that there was much to see in the first place. Some of the rubble had been cleared away, but Jon Knew that there had been reports of "spooky shit," according to the site's foreman, and no one wanted to attempt navigating the tunnels without an army of certified exorcists. The ravaged building seemed destined to become one of the many abandoned construction projects throughout London.

There wasn't anything in particular that Jon was looking for. He just wanted to see the aftermath of his sanctioned destruction for himself. He'd managed to obtain closure on several of his decisions and mistakes while trying to save the world. This was the last one he needed to finally move forward.

But there was no moving forward completely. Not really.

They were sitting at a corner cafe near the construction site when Daisy and Basira arrived. Jon Knew they'd come back from an exploratory drive along the coast and they'd returned with a mission in mind.

"You're going to America," Jon said, apropos of nothing. They'd purchased the flight and hotel the previous night. Neither Daisy nor Basira were surprised by his power manifesting. Everyone in their little group had been informed of what powers had vanished and endured after Jon had come back from the dead again.

"What? Why?" Martin asked.

"Julia Montauk," Daisy said. "She's still out there."

"Figured she might've gone back to more familiar hunting grounds," Basira said. "Can't have her coming back and ruining our peace accords."

"The skin book as well," Daisy added. "And any Leitners on the way. A few less awful things in the world. If we can manage it."

"We thought you could--" Basira began.

"Contact the Usher Foundation on your behalf? Of course," Jon said. "I'll give you the Director's contact information and let her know about your arrival. I'll inform the Pu Songling Research Center as well. Just in case."

"Thanks," Basira said. She took a long sip of her coffee, a practiced stall before saying, "How're the sister institutions reacting, by the way?"

Jon chuckled. "They've been...mostly accommodating if not a little sour about the loss of over two hundred years worth of history. But I'm also on retainer as a Consulting Archivist for both facilities, so I imagine there will be some travel in our future."

"Any plans to rebuild?" Daisy asked.

"Over my dead bo--" Jon said, anger rising to the surface in seconds. Martin cut him off with a calming touch to his arm.

"Not that we're aware of," Martin answered. "I've been, very discreetly, looking into the Lukases and Fairchilds. Nothing so far that looks like plans for a Magnus Institute, Part Deux. At least, not right now."

"Then I guess we'll have to keep an eye on them," Daisy said.

Jon stared at her, a long pause as he mulled her words around. "Was that a joke?"

"What about you two?" Basira asked. "Saw some bags in your rental car. Going somewhere?"

"Scotland," Martin said. "We wanted another go at it. Proper holiday and all that."

"Don't have a safe house anymore," Daisy pointed out.

"I think we'll make do," Jon said. "Besides, we owe some very good cows a visit."

***

** _Six years later..._ **

A little girl, no more than five-years-old crept up to the wooden fence. She'd seen the Fluffy as they walked up the path from the cottage and quickly ran towards the creature while her fathers yelled a combination of "Slow down, Jo-Jo!" and "Keep to the right, love!" She knew they weren't mad, just cautious. Da was a softy, easy to hug and take comfort in his strong arms wrapped around her like a shelter from the storm. Papa was stern, but laughed easily when she crossed her eyes or popped the air in her cheeks like a bloated chipmunk. When he looked at her, she felt seen and known and he seemed to understand her even when she wasn't quite sure of herself.

Neither of them liked it when she was out of their sights, so she made an effort to push that boundary as much as possible.

Now she was at the fence and the Fluffy was taking its time ambling over to inspect the curious thing wiggling its fingers through the wide open gaps. She was almost certain she could fit through the fence planks, but a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Joanna Simone Blackwood, if you even _think_ of getting in there with that cow," Papa began.

"Easy, Jon," Da said as he came up from behind Papa. "She wasn't gonna go beyond the fence. Were you, love?"

Joanna hesitated, her expression flitting from defiance to shame. Papa took pity on her and quickly lifted her up so she was standing on the planks, leaning over the fence, with his hand on her back for support.

"The trick to these cows is you have to tell them how good they are," Papa instructed. The Fluffy finally made it to where they were standing, but stopped just out of reach. Papa put his hand out and Joanna copied his movements. Then his voice pitched up and he said, "C'mon! C'mon, you good ol' cow, you! Who's a good cow? I think you're an _exceptionally_ good cow! Yes, you are!"

"And now that's sent off to Georgie," Da said. Over her shoulder, she could see Da putting his phone away. Papa sighed, loudly.

"Martin..."

"Don't let me stop you," Da said. "Continue being adorable with our daughter."

"Good cow! Good cow! Good cow!" Joanna shouted. The cow hesitated, but it moved the last foot needed to allow her fingers to feel it's fluffy ginger hair. Joanna was all smiles and squeals as Papa and Da led her along the fence to meet all of cows she'd seen as they'd driven to the cottage. It was a long day of skipping through grass and making friends with cows before she found herself cradled against Papa as they walked home. She gave a great yawn and felt his chest rumble with laughter.

"Quite an exciting day, my love," Papa said. "I suppose a nap's in order?"

"'M not sl'py," she mumbled.

"Of course you're not," Da said. He ran his fingers through her short brown curls and she found herself leaning into the touch as her eyes drooped. When they opened again, she was on her little bed, Papa almost half way out the door in the dimly lit room. She could smell freshly brewed tea in the air. Jasmine, the kind Da liked.

"Tell me a story, Papa," she said, tiredly. Papa stopped, a lopsided smile on his face as he came back into the room.

"And what story would you like, Jo-Jo? The one about the space pirates? Maybe the grizzled detective on the ghost train? What about the orc who serves the goddess of love?"

"Tell me how you saved the world," she said. Papa sat on the edge of her bed. He kissed her forehead and wiggled his nose with hers while she giggled in delight. Outside the room, she could hear Da giggling as well.

"Well now, that is a very long story to tell," he said. She put her hand in his, feeling the scars along his skin. One day he'd tell her about those scars, but she didn't think it would be a very happy story. He sensed her concern as she stared and gave her a small squeeze to get her attention again. "Ready, love?"

"Uh-huh!"

"It all started when your Da made a deal with a giant Eye..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMA Episodes referenced:
> 
> MAG 105 - Total War  
MAG 107 - Third Degree


	17. Author's Commentary

**Prologue - The Archivist Reclaimed:**

I can’t remember where the initial idea came from. Given the nature of the horror genre, myth and folklore are a font of inspiration and _The Magnus Archives_ makes use of those tropes and stories regularly. I remember the Discord server making references to Theseus and Ariadne because of the maze elements and there were a plethora of _Hadestown_ comparisons (and fics) after ep. 159. I may have also listened to The Mechanisms’ _Ulysses Dies at Dawn_ around that time. 

I’m no stranger to Greek mythology, I’ve been reading it since I was 12, and the Labors/Trials of Hercules/Heracles popped into my head as an interesting story idea based on the foundation already laid out. Jon’s a guilt-driven machine and after the events of ep. 160, the poor boy would definitely be dealing with more than your average amount of guilt. That Martin is the one who sets up the initial “deal” felt like the right move since Jon would likely subject himself to punishment based on previous behavior and an amplified survivor’s guilt complex on top of I-Ended-The-World syndrome. The atonement aspect would serve as part of the emotional backbone, along with Martin and Jon’s love for each other, while the Labors provided a nice episodic feel and structure. 

When I started writing the prologue, I had a vague idea of the order I wanted the chapters to follow, but I never locked it down because I know me and I was likely going to change my mind based on where the next chapter ended. I didn’t have any of this story pre-written and released on a schedule. Work and my personal life in general wouldn’t have allowed for that, so the chapters would only come out when I had the time to piece them together.

One element of the story I dropped entirely after the Prologue was the Watcher taking Jon into traumatic experiences as they were happening. The initial idea was to pepper those throughout the story as an additional complication from the Watcher. The more progress Jon and Martin made, the stronger the pull from the Watcher, which would force Jon to combat it when he faced off against the Eye. But then I realized it would make things too complicated story-wise and I left it as an abandoned pre-deal not-so-happy-fun-times-in-the-Apocalypse.

**1st Labor - Slay the Beast in the Dark:**

The Beast was always going to be the first proper chapter after the Prologue. When you look at the actual Labors of Hercules the majority of them boil down to ‘Hercules kills an animal real good.’ Conveniently, the Dark had a beast that could fit into that slot easily. When I started writing, it was going to be the same beast that killed Robert Montauk, but while looking up the entry on the fandom wiki, I was informed it had already been destroyed. So, I made it a new beast, something I assume the Dark is ready to send out when necessary.

I came into TMA in early Season 4 and I binged the hell out of it, but the drawback to that is a lot of details go in one ear and out the other while processing over 100 episodes in order to catch up. This is my way of blanket caveating anything that doesn’t necessarily jive with the show’s canon. Also, shout-out to the very dedicated people who’ve made the Magnus Archives wiki an invaluable source of information when someone like me needs to do some extensive research!

This chapter sets up the Chekhov's Gun of the beast’s claw. I had initially thought that Jon would collect a token from each Fear that would end up being part of a ritual to end the Apocalypse. After some thought on the matter, it didn’t seem as feasible with the other Entities, but I wanted to keep the beast’s claw because it sounded pretty poetic to blind an avatar of the Eye with something from the Dark.

The bond between Jon and Martin gets a better shape as well. I firmly believe, as of the end of Season 4, the only way Jon’s going to be proactive is if being inactive puts Martin in danger. I don’t think there’s anything Jon wouldn’t do for Martin and vice versa. With that in mind, it’s very easy to create situations where Jon makes himself the target as a means of keeping Martin safe. He’s just really bad, especially in the heat of the moment, at communicating or taking another person’s perspective into account. I also didn’t want Martin to be entirely helpless or meek in the face of all this insanity, so making sure that he laid down some very sensible ground rules about being compelled was important.

**2nd Labor - Stop the Hunt:**

I love how Daisy and Jon’s friendship developed post-coffin and it was a bit of a no-brainer to have her barge into the story with teeth gnashing and reckless abandon. Of the archives staff she’s the only one who really understands what Jon’s going through and I wanted to show how that loyalty and platonic love translated when she confronted him in full wolf form. Jon’s desire to save Daisy is just as much about saving himself.

I wanted to play around with some things in this chapter. First was to bring Jon’s empathy front and center. On the podcast, we’ve listened to the slow progression of Jon’s voice softening and his sympathies increase as he becomes more “monstrous.” Feeling sorry for Trevor Herbert, regardless of his murderous intent, made sense because Jon would understand how the desire to do what’s right, to do good, could easily become an unhealthy obsession that turns into one’s personal downfall. The Fears provide their avatars with a lot of power, but it twists that person to the point where their original goal is unrecognizable. 

Second was to play with Jon’s power set. Other than Knowing, Seeing, Extracting, and Compelling, he hasn’t displayed any power similar to Elias/Jonah’s ability to insert memories or thoughts into others. However, I figured since he was an “important” avatar to the Watcher that he’d get to use whatever ability was available at the moment. I also wanted a clear juxtaposition between Jon and Elias. Pulling the Hunt out of Daisy was just purse nonsense, but I wanted to do it story-wise so I didn’t have to think about the constant threat of Daisy succumbing to the Hunt again. There are only so many story elements I’m equipped to handle or keep track of and shaving down the complications was the best method.

The last was to keep the conflict between Jon and Martin at a medium simmer. It’s only been a few minutes since Jon fought the beast in the Dark, so tensions are still high. That Jon put himself in danger, again, speaks to his state of mind and how he sees his own death as either inevitable or acceptable in the grander scheme of things. Martin, obviously, disagrees. Of course, the boys are softies at heart, especially for each other, and I like writing conflict and make-up scenes between them.

**3rd Labor - Bury the Vast:**

This chapter is another example of Sam (that’s me!) having an idea to send the thing in  _ Ex Altiora _ after Jon and then reading on the wiki that the book had been destroyed already. Again, sometimes binging a podcast - especially one with so many details that become important down the line - isn’t always the best method. So, like the beast in the Dark, I played with the idea of the Idea being shaped into Being by the Vast! Then I slapped the Watcher into the middle of its head and instant Cyclops! Greek myth! Gee-whiz, I’m clever!

_ (I’m not clever. All of this happened by accident and I just wanted to look cool in front of the other fanfic authors!) _

The scene between Jon and Martin in the morning felt crucial as far as establishing their relationship status and the looming threat of the Lonely after ep. 159. As someone who identifies as asexual, I wasn’t going to mess around with Jon’s Ace identity too much, but it was important, to me, to show the level of intimacy between these tired boys beyond hand-holding, hugs, and kisses. I had the idea for the Lonely being a semi-constant threat through Martin but never so much that it was going to capture him completely. The Lonely, based on the podcast’s narrative, isn’t something you can bounce back from no matter how good or domestic things have turned out. I’m actually surprised by how many times I used it, but it made sense when you think about how stressed, anxious, and frightened Martin is watching the man he loves suffer and there’s very little he can do to stop it. Plus, he kinda made it happen, but that’s neither here nor there.

Throwing the Lonely into the mix also became an accidental set-up for Jon’s internal struggle down the way, but I was more interested in returning to the phrase “I See You” that pops up throughout the story. It’s become the most romantic phrase in the Magnus Archives canon short of asking someone you love to gouge your eyes out and run away together. The panic attack reduction exercises made for a delightful means of showing another level of intimacy between Jon and Martin. I imagined they’re still learning how to help and comfort each other as a team, so giving them a set of tools to work through their traumatic experiences seemed necessary to their relationship. 

Describing  _ Ex Altiora _ was the biggest hurdle as far as writing. I tend to sit with certain ideas for a while, mulling it around in my head until something clicks. Trying to grasp how the Vast has been portrayed on the podcast helped, but it really came down to me getting into that headspace of feeling small and powerless when facing something so much bigger than yourself. Not hard to do, just hard to describe in a way that’s readable and entertaining. 

I think this is the chapter where I figured out the “Jon gains a token from each Fear” plot component wasn’t going to work with headier concepts like the Vast. I would’ve had to finagle some way of getting a literal bottle of lightning into Jon’s hands and I wasn’t prepared to make those kinds of narrative leaps in logic. 

I knew the Buried would follow the Vast. Whether it pulled Jon under because it was always intending to or because Jon forced a giant Vast monster to dig its own grave is anybody’s guess.

**4th Labor - Unearth the Buried:**

This was one of the tasks I had in my head from the beginning, or I had the concept of it. I knew I wanted Jon to be buried alive again and I knew he would convince the Buried to let him go. The “how” of it all escaped me for a while, but I got there eventually. The fun and frustration of writing yourself into situations where a character has to use their wits instead of brawn is as exciting as it is terrifying. I didn’t want to be repetitive in the ways Jon uses his powers either since it could easily turn into a situation of asking myself, “Well why didn’t he do that before?” It’s the Lord of the Rings eagles “argument” all over again.

This is also the first instance of Jon truly thinking about dying as a means of escape only to reprioritize when he realizes Martin is more important than wasting away. He still gives it a think, but the motivation to get out of the Buried is mainly, “Loved visiting, but I need to get back to my boyfriend now. Thanks. Bye!” The relatively quiet nature of Jon’s scene contrasts nicely with Martin’s panicked digging. Putting Martin and Daisy together for a bit gave them a chance to play off each other since the last time they’d talked, in the show’s canon, was less than friendly on Martin’s part. Having Martin spill his guts about the guilt he feels for playing a part in Magnus’s plan needed to be said at some point, so this seemed like the best place for it. It’s been one and a half very stressful days for everyone.

And we have the first appearance of Helen! Describing her is difficult and I don’t like it, but I love her nonetheless

**5th Labor - Unmask the Stranger:**

Did somebody order angst? Because I’ve got a whole lotta angst here and it’s got to go somewhere! 

There were some difficulties writing this chapter. The first was having a larger cast of characters with the inclusion of Georgie and Melanie. Having that many people, it feels like you need to give all of them something to do or say, but more often than not one or two characters end up getting the raw end of the deal. In this case it was Daisy, but she’s not exactly the talkative type so I didn’t feel too bad not giving her a whole lot to say. The other problem was Georgie. 

I had problems with Georgie in Season 4. I understood her side of things in distancing herself from Jon, but it irked me because it was another person putting Jon down and abandoning him because it was “safer” or easier for them. Yes, Jon’s the lead character, but it was difficult hearing Georgie’s reasoning for why Melanie was worth saving and Jon wasn’t. So, when it came to sending the group to Georgie and Melanie’s flat, it meant I needed to find a way to write Georgie that made sense for her character and for the story I was telling. Lucky for me, I’m an angst-monger extraordinaire! And if you want your main character’s self-loathing to really hit its crescendo, then Georgie’s exchanges with Jon were the best place for that to occur. 

Not-Sasha was always going to be the creature fought from the Stranger. This was my own way of finding resolution for the real Sasha James. She gets to be the hero in the end, helping Jon see the changeling for what it is so he can expose its true form. And then Daisy gets to shoot it with all of the bullets!

It should be noted that, while it’s not the first indication that the Watcher is a bit worried about Jon’s progress, this is the first instance of the Watcher deliberately interfering. Like the Greek Pantheon, the Fears are generous with their powers and gifts...until they’re not. 

**6th Labor - Embrace the Lonely:**

This. Was. My. Favorite. Chapter. To. Write!

The Lonely was the easiest Fear to get behind and write about because I have my own anxiety disorders that I deal with on the regular. It’s not hard to get into that mindset of spiraling down the black hole that is self-loathing and self-deprecation. Applying that to Jon and his experiences over the course of four seasons was a no-brainer as far as seeing his psychological story arc through to its logical conclusion. Not that those feelings are gone completely, but this is a turning point for Jon and his proclivity for self-destruction and martyrdom as the first and only option.

I was actually worried about how this chapter would be received because Jon doesn’t “defeat” the Lonely in the same way he “defeated” the previous Fears. He’s ready to submit, to give in, and what saves him is Martin, Georgie, Daisy, and Melanie guiding him back because they love him. The circumstances of the chapter gave Georgie a chance to redeem herself as well as acknowledge how Melanie, Basira, and, to a lesser extent, Daisy alienated Jon and contributed to his trauma. He might be the Eye’s avatar, but the Lonely is the runner-up Fear ready to gobble Jon up. 

And, yeah, I wanted an “I see you” redux from ep. 159. It’s too good not to do again! Jon and Martin fluff lets me exercise my softer emotions that I usually cram into a lock box somewhere in my psyche because I’m an adult who processes her feelings in a healthy way!

**7th Labor - Silence the Slaughter:**

By the timeline of the story, the first seven chapters take place over a 48hr period where Jon and company encounter six Entities in some capacity. Yeah, they needed some downtime. The opening of the chapter was a necessary bit of housecleaning as far as showing how the world at large, London specifically, was dealing with the onslaught of cosmic horrors. I didn’t want to go into too much detail mostly because it wasn’t significant to the story in any meaningful way. I wanted to establish, like in the Scottish village, that society was adjusting as it usually does - ignorance, denial, minor bouts of anarchy, and vigilance. 

The opening is also blatant fluff pandering complete with an RQ Gaming shout-out via the works of Harrison Campbell. He transcends the RQ Podcast Universe and no one can convince me otherwise. It is a hill I am prepared to die upon.

There were a lot of moving parts in this chapter. The Slaughter is an interesting Entity as far as exploring the human capacity for violence. A lot of the episodes pertaining to the Slaughter have a musical element as well, so I wanted to include that. Martin being an amateur poet presented an opportunity to utilize that skill as a heroic weapon to counter the drums and pipes, so it felt earned as far as giving Martin something to do and means of helping Jon. Amping the tension and writing combat were rough going for a while. I have a hard time visualizing fights because I don’t have any experience with fighting or choreographed fighting, which means I’m kinda throwing spaghetti on the wall and seeing if it slaps someone the right way while delivering a roundhouse kick. 

And, at last, Jon’s ability to heal is gone. This was planned from the beginning as far as raising the stakes of Jon’s physical limitations. The Watcher is getting desperate and what it giveth it can taketh away. Mostly, I didn’t want Jon to be too overpowered based on where I was taking the story and how the last few chapters were developing. I made myself cut the power cord because it needed to happen for the greater good of the story. Because it can never be easy for our boy Jon.

**8th Labor - Heal the Flesh:**

The halfway point seemed like a good enough place to get some answers and it’s always nice to bring another avatar into the mix to do it since she always has more information than anyone. I hadn’t been intending to bring Annabelle in until the needs of the story demanded it. She was going to be a distant figure, like the not-so-friendly wizard in this tale of heroism. But then I wrote myself into a corner with taking away Jon’s ability to heal and mortally wounding him, so it turned out the spiders were the best solution to that particular problem. The original idea was the spiders were weaving their webs as a means of obscuring Georgie’s flat from the Eye, so they’d have some measure of privacy to speak with Annabelle, but it never really worked as the story progressed.

The ribs, lighter, and urn gifted by Annabelle were leftovers from the “token of each Entity” plot that got scrapped, but they still worked as callbacks and helpful items in the future. Based on where the characters were, geographically speaking, I blanked on how to get Jared Hopworth involved and then I gave up on getting too involved with the Flesh avatar because I couldn’t settle on a fight or meeting that made sense. The benefit of losing Jared meant Martin took on a more active role in helping Jon heal, so to speak. It wasn’t until I started writing the bit where Martin reads from the book that it occurred to me how opposite the Lonely and the Flesh were in terms of how they exerted or diminished a person’s sense of power over others and themselves. Another happy accident while writing!

This chapter made the most sense to cover the topic of sex and intimacy between Jon and Martin. Being asexual doesn’t mean Jon would necessarily be opposed to sex, but the show’s canon established that Jon hasn’t so I wanted to respect that. It also doesn’t mean he and Martin can’t experiment or that their relationship is without affection or genuine intimacy. There are so many other ways to show love for another person. That being said, when I decided Martin was going to eventually have his hand literally inside Jon’s body, the sex metaphor made itself known not long after.

**9th Labor - Purge the Corruption:**

Okay, here’s where I went way more experimental in the structure of the chapter. The idea was to reinforce Jon’s sympathy and empathy as a means of connection with Basira. There’s a term called, shocker, sympathy magic and I went with that as the basis for Jon’s ability to feel the worms. I don’t know how well it really comes across, but I felt it was another way of showing Jon’s growth.

I will admit, I was a bit ambitious with the four separate streams of consciousness/narrations happening on a platform that doesn’t allow for a lot of variation with font and text. If it was confusing, my bad. 

This is the chapter I spent the longest writing and rewriting. I couldn’t figure out what to do with Basira and the Corruption occupying the same space. I had the urn in play and I spent a lot of time researching things that could be done with ashes that weren’t in memory of a lost loved one. Then I realized I’d kinda laid the foundation for apples infested with worms in Bury the Vast, so I leaned into the fairy tale logic and it worked so much better than I thought it would.

Also, yay for Basira and Daisy reunion! I made myself very happy when they awkwardly put away their guns before hugging. 

**10th Labor - Desolate the Archives:**

So, you want to burn down the archives? This chapter ended up being the closest to a wish fulfillment installment then any other chapter. I’m not big in the Red String Brigade aspect of Magnus fandom, but I have a feeling the archives are going to burn at some point in Season 5. Just a pet theory. This chapter changed a couple times when I was still going for the “token” angle, but when that was abandoned I stopped trying to overthink it and settled on burning the archives down. Like ya do! It ties into one of the Labors where Hercules is just washing the excrement out of a stable by redirecting a river and this task echoes that idea...sorta. It doesn’t exactly fit with any notion of reverse engineering the Fears’ powers or philosophical tenets to combat them, but not all of the chapters have adhered to that concept either. 

The second wish fulfillment is Basira’s change in attitude towards Jon. Like Georgie, Basira was hard to listen to as she became more combative and merciless. Her ultimatum to Jon as far as “feeding” left a sour taste and I’m well aware that this is part of Jonny Sims’ master plan, but I went ahead and got everyone on the same page for the benefit of the story. I brought Basira back so much later than everyone else, so she wasn’t going to get as much character development as Daisy or Georgie. It was a much quicker fix to an issue that would take much longer to correct even within a short story like this one.

I loved writing Jude and she was a great vessel to provide additional exposition about what it actually means to be living in a world dominated by a giant All-Seeing Eye. I’d originally thought the other avatars would band together just because they didn’t like that the Eye was in charge, but having the Eye siphon off fear, leaving nothing for the other Entities made it way more sinister and added another dimension to the motives behind opposing the Watcher’s ascension.

**11th Labor - Break the Spider’s Web:**

I don’t like spiders. I don’t like them one bit and every Magnus episode that’s featured spiders has made my skin crawl. Every. Time. 

This chapter was swapped with the Spiral in the order I was writing. Originally, the crew would map the maze and then the Mr. Spider scenario would happen just as they were about to take off for the Panopticon. Based on how the story was progressing, it made more sense for the Web’s chapter to follow the Desolation based on the logistics of the setting.

Connecting the lighter and the Leitner was there from the beginning of the story. Jon was always going to burn the lighter along with the book as a one-stop shop of breaking from the Web and whatever hold they have on him. It was a nice bit of closure, too, for Jon as a character confronting his first mark and, technically, his first victim. Although, the bully didn’t feature in the chapter until I started writing. It was just going to be Jon and Mr. Spider conversing, but I figured why not make it creepier? Sure, throw the bully back in! Yeah, make him a meat puppet! Why not? Give yourself nightmares, Sam! Alright, I will!

And Jon got to be the action hero in this one! Sure, he’s clumsy and he can’t think of a good plan worth sticking to, but he got to swing from a giant web, save his friends, and kissed his man conscious!

**12th Labor - Map the Spiral’s Maze:**

Okay, the Spiral’s task for this chapter was always intended to be mapping the maze, but it took awhile for me to grasp what I was actually writing about. Turns out it’s hard to describe things that are impossible and play into the fear of going mad. Not super easy to distill it and make it make sense. I went with what worked in the podcast, pinning the Spiral to reality. If it could happen to Michael/Helen, then the maze, as an extension of the Spiral, could also be locked down by the same illogical logic.

I adore Helen as a character in the podcast and I was glad to give her something to do beyond being a chauffeur or weird for the sake of being weird. Bringing it back to what brought her to the archives in the first place seemed right for her. She got to be Helen again and return more of the kindness that Jon showed her before everything changed. 

I did that thing again where I wrote myself into a corner and needed a quick fix to get out of it. By making the desolation of the archives a truly painful experience for Jon, I realized there was no way he’d be able to function effectively with that much going on. Spreading the pain by using the connection with the others via the Eye made enough sense that it was plausible, so I put it there to save Jon before another fresh hell descended on him. 

There's also fan art of a scene between Martin and Jon by the fantastic Cary Atherton that you can find here: <https://cary-atherton-art.tumblr.com/image/190813658495>

**13th Labor - Close the Eye:**

Oh boy, this chapter made me nervous when I started writing it. So much build up in the previous chapters, which made me feel extra anxious about making this one worth the journey taken to get there. 

Using the tape recorders was a decision that was made while in the process of writing the chapter. I wanted Jon to be in the thrall of the Eye, but have a conversation between the devil (Elias/Jonah) and the angel (Martin) on his shoulders. The recorders are a manifestation of Jon’s power as an avatar, so it made sense that in a last ditch effort to finish his quest he’d conjure Martin’s voice to guide him home. I spent a lot of time looking at transcripts for this one.

It was very satisfying to write Jonah’s death. Very satisfying.

The last scene with Martin was my version of Dean Winchester crying out after Sam died (the first time). Spoilers for _Supernatural_ Season 2, I guess?

**14th Labor - Face The End:**

With an Entity known as The End how could I not make it the last chapter of the quest? I mean...it practically writes itself. 

As I said in the endnotes, I blatantly plagiarized a one-shot speculative story I wrote where Oliver and Tim make their appearances under different circumstances. Ans since I hadn’t used either of them during the whole story, this was the best place to bring them back. Jon and Tim needed some closure, so I gave it to them. It’s also really fun to write paranoid Jon because of course he wouldn’t trust that the other avatars have ulterior motives for letting him live again.

I’m also a sucker for afterlife bureaucracy, so putting a little contract nonsense made me chuckle to myself. 

**Epilogue - The Archivist Reborn:**

And that’s a wrap! I went with as much saccharine fluff wish fulfillment as I could think of. I know Georgie and Melanie don’t get any definite closure, but I figure they’re doing their thing and that’s all we need to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's a question you've been burning to ask me that I didn't cover in the commentary, then feel free to drop a comment or message me and I'll see if I can answer it to your satisfaction!


End file.
